


Where We Are, Where We Started

by angelicaschuyler



Series: Where We Are, Where We Started [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference (10-12 years), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, Falling In Love, Family, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past Character Death, Slow Burn, Widowed, more to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25102102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicaschuyler/pseuds/angelicaschuyler
Summary: NOTE: Republishing after deleting back in 2017 for non-dramatic reasons I won't bore you with.Alex wasn’t prepared for the unimaginable – but then again, no one ever is. In the blink of an eye, he becomes a single father of two. He’s just picking up the pieces when George Washington walks into his life.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler - past, Alexander Hamilton/George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens (past), More to be added - Relationship
Series: Where We Are, Where We Started [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/503848
Comments: 65
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends. This fic was first published in May 2016 and was last updated in July 2017. I deleted the whole thing for reasons I won't get into. It was not a completed story, but it was pretty popular back in the Hamilton fandom heydey? I really regret losing all my stats and comments, but oh well, nothing I can do about it now!
> 
> Anyway, in honor of the film, I thought I'd start reposting this chapter by chapter. I am going to do my best to actually write the ending this time around. Anyway. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (I am also doing some minor revisions as I repost!)

It begins like any other Tuesday. Her side of the bed is still warm when Alex wakes up.

He remembers the little things he took for granted every other morning over their 20 years of marriage. The scent of her pillows – a mix of coconut oil shampoo, a favorite of hers since their college years, and the vanilla-rose perfume he gave her for Valentine’s Day. The ironing board – still set up in the middle of the bedroom, Alex’s freshly pressed outfit hanging on the back of the door. Two tubes of lipstick sitting on the bathroom sink – one a pinky nude and the other a deep mauve.

He never finds out which one she chose.

“You just missed mom, she took Will to school early,” Angie greets him with a mouthful of scrambled eggs, her math homework spread out on the table in front of her. She’s juggling her fork in one hand and a pencil in the other. “And, she wanted me to remind you you’re having lunch with her and Philip today. At the Pret by your office.”

“I remember.” Alex rolls his eyes, playful, and Angie laughs. He pours himself a to-go mug of coffee and joins her at the table. “You know she added it to my Google calendar.”

“That sounds like mom,” Angie grins, arching an eyebrow at the coffee cupped in Alex’s hands. “Dad. Breakfast…”

Alex grimaces. “If you don’t tell mom I’m having coffee for breakfast, I won’t tell her you’re doing todays’s algebra at the breakfast table.”

Angie looks down at her homework, considers the offer, and nods. “OK. Deal.”

“Good girl,” Alex says, standing up and kissing the top of her head. He checks his watch and clucks his tongue. “OK, I’ve gotta run.”

“Tell Philip he can’t ignore me just because he’s in college now,” Angie says, twisting around in her chair as Alex pulls on his coat and backpack. “He doesn’t have to spend every weekend on campus.”

Alex laughs. “You’ll understand when you’re in college. Bye, Angel.”

It begins like any other Tuesday morning. Listening to Burr’s painful phone interviews from the other side of his nook, leaning back in his chair and making stabbing motions at his cubicle wall while Angelica suppresses laughter on her side of the shared office. He has his one-on-one meetings with his interns. He exchanges texts with Philip, continuing his never-ending list of bar recommendations near Columbia’s campus. (That conversation takes place outside of the group text with Eliza – he’s only 19, after all.)

He’s in the break room, making a fresh pot of coffee, when Burr leans in and drums his fingers along the doorframe.

“Hey, Alexander – ” Alex cringes. It’s the name he uses for his byline, sure, but he really only likes to hear Eliza say it out loud. “You should come out to the bullpen. They’ve got CNN on, something’s going down.”

Alex abandons the coffee maker and follows Burr out to the main floor. Everyone is silent aside from two or three reporters already on the phone, trying to piece together the story –

"We’re hearing about a derailment in Columbus Circle,” the anchor’s voice carries through the newsroom. She’s nervously shuffling a stack of notes on her desk, not quite looking at the camera. “No word yet on injuries or fatalities, but it looks like it was a southbound 1 train – ”

“We need to get this story online as soon as possible,” Burr mutters, eyes still fixed on the screen. But Alex isn’t listening. He catches Angelica by the elbow when she steps up next to him, frowning at the TV.

“Can you try Eliza while I try Philip?” he asks, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. “We’re meeting for lunch – they’d be taking the 1 from campus.”

Angelica’s face drops. He feels her tense under his own tightening grip.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says, moving his hand from her elbow to the top of her arm and squeezing. And he is sure. Shit happens all the time – there are millions of people in New York City. Fuck, it’s entirely possible Eliza and Philip jumped in a cab. “We just need to call them.” 

Angelica sets her jaw and nods, pulling out her iPhone, manicured nails clicking across the screen. The volume in the newsroom is starting to rise, so she plugs her other ear with a finger. Alex calls Philip.

“Nothing,” Angelica says, shaking her head and typing out a text. Her hands are trembling.

Philip’s phone rings until it goes to voicemail. Alex swallows.

“They could be underground,” he says. They could be on any one of the subway platforms. It’s unlikely they’re anywhere near Columbus Circle. “They’re not going anywhere anytime soon. They’ll call.”

“They’ll call,” Angelica repeats, looking back up at the television. They’re already showing footage of firefighters, weighed down by their gear, jogging down a flight of station steps. The anchor’s disembodied voice repeats the same information over and over again. …a southbound 1 train, no word on injuries, but we are in touch with our sources at the MTA…

Alex looks down at his phone. The wallpaper photo, one of Eliza in her favorite wrap dress with Philip in his cap and gown, curls sticking out every which way, smiles back at him. No one calls. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Nine Months Later_

_“Give yourself time.”_

_“They’re in a better place now.”_

_“You have to be strong – for the kids.”_

_“She wouldn’t want to see you like this.”_

Alex almost wishes he’d written down every word of the shitty, unsolicited advice he’s received over the last nine months – if only to laugh about it with Angelica later, in some alternate timeline where they both feel whole again.

The thing no one tells you about grief or its five stages is that there’s no rhyme or reason to it, no formula. Sometimes Alex feels everything at once. There are the days he can barely look at Angie and William – when all he sees are Eliza’s eyes or Philip’s goofy smile. There are days he takes a second shower at night, just so the kids don’t have to see him cry.

And there are days he feels strong – almost manic. He’ll clean the house, throw out all the rotting food from the drawers at the bottom of the refrigerator, blow money on expensive dinners for the kids. There are days they laugh and feel like a family again. But it never seems to last once the sun sets and Alex is back in his empty bedroom, Eliza’s scent – her shampoo and perfume –fading with her memory.

Angelica is better than him. She’s the one who keeps a stiff upper lip. She’s the one who helps the kids make memory boxes and photo albums, the one who, early on, during the hardest weeks of all their lives, would lie in bed with Angie and talks through the night. 

She’s the one who takes the kids to church. Alex tried. He lasted two Sundays, never went back after laughing in the face of a total stranger, some well-meaning old woman who grabbed his arm and told him, _“God always has a plan.”_

Nine months seem to pass in the blink of an eye. The world moves on, but he doesn’t. It’s enough time to make the few people left in his life start to lose their patience with him. No one has outright told him to “move on” (he’s waiting for that one), but he can see it in their eyes when he comes to work late, unwashed hair tied back in a greasy knot. His brain screams it on the days he comes home at 6 p.m., turns off all the lights, and crawls into bed. _Get up, get up, aren’t you better yet?_

Alex doesn’t look at anyone when he walks into the newsroom. It takes a lot of effort to ignore a bullpen full of nosy journalists, but he manages. He walks straight into his shared office and is welcomed by the sound of Burr clicking away loudly at his laptop on the other side of the nook. The typing stops when he closes the door behind him and falls heavily into his seat. There’s a pause, and then the sound of rolling wheels and the squeak of a chair. Alex looks up at the ceiling and curses under his breath. 

“Alexander,” Burr’s voice is soft when he steps around their cubicle wall. Nowadays, he talks to Alex like he’ll crack in an instant. “You’re 45 minutes late.”

Alex doesn’t look at him. Just unzips his laptop bag and brushes a few papers away from the center of his desk so he can set up his MacBook.

“I took Will to school this morning. Like I always do,” Alex says, punching his laptop’s power button with more force than necessary. “And then I had to update some paperwork with his teacher. What do you want?”

Alex technically sets his own hours – their boss is hands-off, he doesn’t really bat an eye as long as the work is done. Sure, most of the staff arrive around 9 a.m., but there’s no reason for Burr, of all people, to confront him about this.

He sits in the chair next to Alex’s desk and Alex tenses. His eyes flicker over to Burr and his throat tightens. If this is a fucking intervention –

“I’m just trying to look out for you, man,” Burr says, and Alex has to fight the desire to roll his eyes. “There’s just talk around the office – you come in late and leave early and, look, people are sympathetic. They are. But –”

“It’s October, I know,” Alex finishes, suddenly preoccupied with reorganizing his pen cup. “I should have a system figured out, just bounce the fuck right back from losing my wife of twenty years and my teenage son.”

Burr shifts awkwardly and starts picking at an imaginary spot on the thigh of his pants. He’s not looking at Alex now. “I just want you to know that people are talking.”

“Great, thanks Aaron,” Alex snaps, turning back to his computer and pulling up his email. _56 unread._ “Are we done?”

Burr sits a while longer. Alex feels him staring. Wordlessly, he climbs back to his feet and circles around to his side of the cubicle. The loud typing resumes a few seconds later.

Alex closes his eyes for a minute, collecting himself. He doesn’t want to waste time on anger anymore. Frankly, Burr isn’t really worth it. Alex doesn’t _dislike_ him – not as much as Angelica does – but he’s never allowed himself to get that close to him, either. Alex has always kept a tight circle of friends. Burr just isn’t a part of it.

He goes through and deletes most of his emails – press releases he doesn’t care about, spam, complaints about articles he doesn’t have the energy to respond to – until he’s left with twelve in the inbox. He starts at the top. A name he vaguely recognizes with the subject line “ _Interview opportunity.”_

_Mr. Hamilton,_

_I wanted to touch base with you in regards to a piece I’m working on for the_ New Yorker. _In light of the approaching one year anniversary of the Columbus Circle tragedy, we’d like to feature you and your family in an upcoming article. We’re focusing not only on the 16 victims and their families, but the MTA’s role in -_

Alex can’t help but laugh as he deletes the email. Then, he goes into his trash folder and deletes it from there, too. Yeah, the world moves on - until it doesn’t. Until it wants to parade him and his kids around like show ponies. And for what? So some prick can be a Pulitzer Prize runner-up? 

His eyes fall on the photo pinned to his cubicle wall. It’s the one he’s always kept at his desk - the one from their wedding day, Eliza’s head tilted back, laughing, as he smears her face with cake.

It feels like a millennium has passed since then.

He leaves work an hour early without saying a word to Burr. Angelica’s on the other side of the city on an assignment, so there’s no one else free to pick Will up from school. He truly couldn’t care less what people at work are saying about him. What’s his boss going to do? Fire a widower? A single father of two?

He takes the train back to Park Slope. There was a time, the first few weeks following the accident, when he wouldn’t take the subway. The very idea of it made him feel nauseous and panicky. Still does, sometimes. If available and affordable parking were a thing in Manhattan, he’d just drive his car into the city every day.

Alex waits outside the school until he sees Will walking down the front steps alone, staring down at his sneakers, hands on his backpack straps. He used to be such a happy kid - and, really, he still is. At seven, he’s old enough to understand death but not quite grasp the finality of it. Angelica’s reassurances that he’ll see Eliza and Philip in heaven one day actually work on him for the most part, but there are still nights he’ll crawl into Alex’s bed and ask _when._ He’s still doing well in school, and his teacher says the other kids have been kind, though he’s had a bit of trouble opening up to them. He learned that Will stopped playing with his friends on the playground. Hearing that just about destroyed him. 

“Hey, sweetie,” Alex says, holding his hand low for a high-five. Will grins and slaps his palm. “Have a good day at school?”

Will nods and takes his hand as they start walking down the sidewalk, toward their block. “Miss Regina made us cookies.”

“Cool. Hey, Aunt Angelica’s coming over tonight for dinner, so you’re going to need to help daddy clean up the kitchen, OK?”

Will doesn’t answer, so Alex lets go of his hand and shakes his shoulder playfully. “You OK, bud?” 

Will stops walking and looks up at him. And, God, he looks so much like Philip - long dark curls with almost amber-colored eyes, just the faintest dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

“Dad? We always go home after school.”

Alex frowns. “Yeah? What’s wrong with that?”

Will shrugs and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, we used to do stuff. Like go to the park. Or get lemonade. Today at school, Molly said her mom took her to Central Park on Saturday. We never go to Central Park.”

Alex hesitates. “Will, we’d have to take the train to get to Central Park, I - ”

Will’s shoulders slump. He stares back down at his shoes. Alex sighs and looks around, and then up at the trees lining the sidewalk. It really is a beautiful day - maybe one of the last beautiful days they’ll have before the winter creeps in.He looks back down at his son and nods. 

“OK. Let’s go to Central Park.”

The smile on Will’s face when he looks up at him makes it worth the ride back into the city. 

—

Walking in Central Park in the fall is like stepping into a sunset - everything is brown and gold and red. Alex takes Will to the Pond first. He watches the ducks while Alex settles in on one of the benches, breathing in the fresh air. It feels good - being surrounded by nature and the smell of crisp, fall leaves instead of piss and sewage. 

There was a part of him that wanted to pick up and move after they lost Eliza and Philip. Ditch New York, head upstate or maybe even west. Anywhere, really. Alex entertained the idea for weeks. When it came down to it, though, he knew he couldn’t leave Angelica or take the kids out of their schools. 

Like it or not, New York is their home. 

Will eventually grows tired of the ducks, so they head north. Alex is pretty sure there’s a playground somewhere in this corner of the park, but he doesn’t want to be here all evening - they’re already going to miss dinner with Angelica and Angie. They’re walking past the zoo entrance when Will stops and tugs on his arm.

“Daddy! Can we go?”

Alex sighs and looks at his wrist watch. “They close in about an hour, buddy. We don’t have time - besides, we can’t afford it right now. Come on.”

He grabs Will’s hand and gently pulls him along, ignoring his pouting. They walk a few more minutes before Will slows and starts dragging his feet.

“William,” Alex warns, apologizing to a couple strolling along behind them and pulling Will off to the side of the path. “Stop that. We can’t go to the zoo today.”

Will crosses his arms, lips curling into a frown, nostrils flaring. “We never do anything fun anymore!”

Alex freezes. Fucking great. A public meltdown is just what he needs today. 

“This isn’t ‘no’ to the zoo forever, Will, this is just ‘no’ to the zoo today,” Alex reasons, squatting down in front of him so their eyes are level. “OK? I’m not trying to be mean. Don’t you want more time to see the animals?”

Will shrugs a shoulder and Alex sighs, standing upright. He spots the familiar mustard yellow and blue umbrellas over a hotdog stand, tucked away in the shade a bit further down the path. That’ll have to do. 

“Come on,” he says, pulling Will along. He drops his hand for a moment while he fishes out his wallet to pay for their food, and it takes unnecessary amount of time for the vendor to break his $20 bill and count out the change. 

When he turns back around, a hotdog in each hand, Will is gone.

Alex’s chest physically aches. His feet suddenly feel like they’ve been tied to weights. He squeezes the hotdogs as he whirls back around to the vendor.

“Did you see my son walk off?” he asks, tears already pricking at his eyes. The vendor frowns and shakes his head, goes back to opening a new pack of napkins. Fucking New Yorkers. 

Alex throws the hotdogs in the nearest trash bin and practically runs back toward the zoo entrance, shouldering past families and nearly tripping over joggers. He’s so horrifically out of shape that he’s already out of breath by the time he’s under the bridge, where Will first started to complain. 

He stops and looks around, hot tears streaming down his face. A crowd of tourists parts, and then he sees him, standing next to one of the benches lining the path. There’s a man crouched in front of him, hands gripping Will’s narrow shoulders while he scans the crowd, squinting against the sun.

“William!” Alex yells, panting as he runs up to the bench, a mix of relief and a hot wave of anger washing over him all at once. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Will shrinks back, his face flushed and eyes wet with unshed tears. The man, still kneeling in front of him, looks up at Alex. 

“Are you his father?”

“Yeah, I’m his fucking father,” Alex snaps, grabbing Will’s arm. The man lets go of Will’s shoulders and stands up, dusting dirt and gravel off the knees of his suit. 

Alex finds himself on the verge of taking everything out on this man - the mere suggestion that he’s not Will’s dad is enough to send him into a spiraling rage - but once he’s standing at his full height, he thinks better of it and clamps his jaw shut. This guy has a good four or five inches on him, with shoulders that he can barely believe fit in his suit jacket. But despite a rather intimidating physical appearance, it’s his eyes that calm Alex - warm and brown under thick brows and gently webbed with crows feet. Alex deflates. He hastily wipes the tears off his cheeks. He must look like a fucking basket case. 

“Will,” he says, looking back down at this son. His voice is still shaky. “You _cannot_ run off like that. You scared me to death.”

“Daddy, I’m sorry…” Will says, his bottom lip trembling.

“You’re lucky this nice man found you,” he says, nodding in the man’s direction, their eyes meeting for a moment. “Honey, we’ve talked about this.”

Will stares down at his shoes and sniffles. The man clears his throat awkwardly. 

“He wanted to go to the zoo,” he says.

“Yeah, well, that’s definitely not happening now,” Alex says, crossing his arms. “We’re going home.”

Will’s face crumbles and he starts to cry in earnest. Alex feels his own face growing warm with guilt - Will inherited Eliza’s shyness. He knows better than to humiliate him in front of a stranger. Just add it to the list of all the ways he’s letting his family down.

“My dad says the zoo is too much money,” Will says to the man between sniffles and gasps for air. And now, Alex’s face is burning for an entirely different reason.

“William - ”

The man blinks but otherwise seems unruffled. He checks his watch and Alex recognizes it as a Rolex - similar to the one his father-in-law wore up until his death. Well, fuck.

“Well. They close in about forty minutes,” the man says, and then, voice low so only Alex can hear. “I’m not trying to undermine you, but he seems - you both seem like you could use a pick-me-up. Let me pay for your admissions.”

Alex’s eyes narrow. This guy cannot be fucking real. But then, he sees Will out of the corner of his eye, staring up at them. And he realizes he can’t end the day like this. Realizes he doesn’t want to go home feeling like a failure, like he’s bringing nothing but grief into his son’s life. 

His shoulders slump. He’ll let his pride take a hit if it makes his kid happy for the rest of the evening. This guy is a perfect stranger. Alex will never see him again, so it really doesn’t matter what he thinks. He’s just some rich guy trying to do his good deed for the day. Whatever.

“OK. Sure.”

The man smiles down at Will. “I think forty minutes is enough time for you and your dad to see a few of the animals.”

Will’s face lights up, wide eyes flickering to Alex’s. Alex gives him a tight smile and nods.

They’re walking over to the ticket gate when Will falls in step with the man and tugs on his suit sleeve. “Sir? Are you going to come with us?”

Alex almost groans. The man stops and looks back at him, shrugging a shoulder. “If your dad’s OK with it, sure.”

Will turns and looks at him hopefully. Alex sighs and returns the shrug. It’s not as if he can just say no. 

“Yeah. That’s fine. Mr. - ”

“Washington,” the man finishes for him, extending his hand. Alex steps forward and shakes it. “George Washington.”

“Alexander Hamilton,” Alex says. George squeezes his hand before releasing it. Alex turns back to Will. “Yeah. Mr. Washington can come with us.” 


	3. Chapter 3

George grabs a map from one of the kiosks once they pass through the gates. The food stands and most of the shops are already starting to shut down. What few families are left are emptying out through the exit.

“All right,” George says, handing Will the map and crouching down to read it with him. “What do you want to see first?”

Will is weighing the pros and cons of visiting the snow monkeys before the sea lions, so Alex heads over to an ATM by the bathrooms. He withdraws $40 – it’s a little more than the cost of his ticket and Will’s, but he doesn’t mind. If he’s going to spend the next half hour with George, he’s not going to spend it insecure and embarrassed.

“All right, we have a game plan,” George says, clapping his hands together and standing upright when Alex returns, tucking his wallet into his back pocket. “If we start with the snow monkeys and end with the sea lions, we’ll pass the grizzly bears, the seals and the penguins. It’s definitely doable.”

Will nods, determined, and tilts his head all the way back to look up at George. “Mr. Washington said they used to have polar bears here, but now the penguins are his favorite.”

Alex can’t help but smile as they start walking, following the signs pointing them in the direction of the monkeys. He takes Will’s hand and turns to George. “The polar bears were great, though I’m pretty partial toward the red pandas.”

As it turns out, George has a wealth of information about the history of the zoo and its animals, which he relays to Will in agonizing detail – and Will is loving it. Alex is fairly certain he’s asking George every question imaginable – what are the grizzly bears’ names? Are they related? Do they have babies? How do the seals hold their breath for so long? And George, if he’s annoyed, doesn’t show it. He answers the questions he can and, to Alex’s amusement, whips out his iPhone to Google the rest.

Alex steps away in the middle of an impassioned conversation about whether or not penguins and puffins are related, parking himself on a bench and checking his phone. He has an unread text from Angelica, a response to one he sent earlier about their change of plans.

_That’s fine, we just ordered takeout. Hope Will has fun. See you soon._

He pockets his phone and looks up to see George watching him from the penguin tank. Alex sits up a little straighter. It’s funny – initially, he thought George looked like a two-a-penny New Yorker in a suit. He’s handsome, just like any other guy who has a personal tailor and can afford a fancy gym membership. But having been married to a Schuyler, Alex has been around enough rich people to know they’re not all wired the same. And George, well – he seems genuine.

George smiles at him and puts a hand on Will’s shoulder. Alex is out of earshot, so he doesn’t hear what George says to his son before making his way over to the bench.

“Are you having a good time?” George asks.

“Yeah – yeah, sorry,” Alex says, moving over to make room for him. George sits. “My sister-in-law is with my daughter right now, so I just wanted to check in with them.”

George nods. For a moment, they’re both silent – just watching Will press his hands against the glass, laughing every time one of the penguins swims past. Alex fishes his wallet out of his pocket and pulls out the two $20 bills.

“Hey, thanks for paying for us and everything, but I really can’t – well, here.”

He hands the money out for George, waiting. George waves a dismissive hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Please.”

Alex runs his thumb over the bills and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, choosing his next words carefully. “What Will said earlier – about the zoo being too expensive. That’s not really true. We’re doing OK. We’re not poor or anything. We’re just on a budget.”

“Alex-”

“I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about us,” he interrupts, folding the money back into his wallet. “My wife used to manage all of our finances – she was way better at that than me. So I’m just trying to be careful.”

He sees George’s eyes dart to his left hand where his wedding band – a steely matte gray with a rose gold stripe through the center – still rests. Alex touches it self-consciously. This is far from the first time he’s had to explain himself after talking about Eliza in past tense. 

It’s fine.

“She passed away in February,” Alex says, looking back up at George and swallowing. Nothing quite changes in his face, and Alex finds himself thankful for that. Most people tend to overreact. “So we’re just trying – we’re trying to be careful.”

George nods. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Alex nods, too, and looks down at his shoes. It feels good to be validated. He’s used to being told what he’s doing _wrong._ There’s another beat of silence. “She was a big fan of the gorilla they used to have here – Patty?”

“Pattycake,” George says. “She was the first gorilla born here in New York City.”

“OK,” Alex laughs. “Do you secretly work here or something?”

George smiles. “No. I’ve just lived near this zoo for over two decades now. You learn things.”

“Well, Will is loving having his own, personal tour guide,” Alex says. “Seriously. Thank you. I hope we didn’t keep you from anything.”

“Not at all,” George says, just as Will spins around to yell back at Alex.

“Daddy! Did you see the penguin slide on his belly!”

“Yeah, buddy! That was super cool!” Alex yells back. Will turns around and George shoots him a puzzled look.

“I’ve been a dad for literally half my life,” Alex explains wearily. “Sometimes it’s easier to just lie to your kids.”

George starts laughing at that – it’s a full-bodied chuckle, the kind of laugh that makes Alex laugh, just from the sound of it. And he’s glad George isn’t doing the math in his head, or asking questions about his kids. The whole widower thing is probably enough of a downer. He doesn’t want to explain his 19-year-old son, too.

George checks his watch and they start heading for the exit with ten minutes to spare. Alex is warring with himself over the appropriate response to all that George has done for them. Do they just part ways? Does he try to give him the forty bucks, one more time? Offer to pay for his cab? He’s still making up his mind when Will stops in his tracks as they near the exit. He’s staring at the gift shop.

“No,” Alex says without missing a beat.

“Dad – ”

“William. They probably already locked the doors.”

Alex used to be the fun parent – Eliza was the strict and disciplined one. That was their whole shtick. He used to love it; the way they balanced each other out. With Eliza gone, he doesn’t even feel like he’s playing both roles anymore. Most days, he just feels _mean._

“Hang on, hang on,” George says before Will can get upset. He heads toward the shop doors, waving them along. Will looks back at Alex and follows.

Alex hesitates before trailing after them. Now he’s getting a little uncomfortable. On one hand, he can sense that George’s heart is in the right place. But he doesn’t want him to get too carried away. He doesn’t want Will to think this is normal.

But on the other hand, this is the happiest he’s seen his son in months.

George talks to the shop owner while Will browses, and Alex senses that he knows her, somehow. She doesn’t seem bothered by the fact it’s literally ten minutes past five and they haven’t left the zoo yet. Alex doesn’t want to eavesdrop, so he moves over to the bookshelves and pretends to browse the titles - they’re mostly children’s books. He hears heavy footsteps approaching a few minutes later. 

“I hope this is all right,” George says, joining Alex by the shelves.

Alex looks up at him and shrugs a shoulder. “Well. He’s having more fun than he would sitting at home.”

“And you?” George asks.

He considers this for a moment. It has been nice – talking to another adult who’s not a coworker or his sister-in-law. And he hasn’t been home since this morning. Usually by this time, he’s already looking forward to crawling into his bed – not out and about with his son. It _has_ been nice. A welcome distraction from everything else.

“I’ve had a good time,” Alex says. The corner of George’s mouth twitches up into a smile.

Will picks out a gorilla jigsaw puzzle and an elephant-patterned infinity scarf for Angie. Alex is already pulling out his wallet, because he sure as hell isn’t about to let George pay for the gifts, too – but the shop owner waves them away with a smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says with a smile. Alex looks back at George as they shuffle out of the shop, waiting for an explanation. But George doesn’t offer one.

“Well,” Alex says once they’re outside the gates, right back where they started. He puts his arm around Will’s shoulders and nods toward George. “Say thank you to Mr. Washington, Will.”

“Thank you, Mr. Washington,” Will says, stepping forward and hugging George around the waist.

George smiles down at him. “You’re very welcome, young man.”

Alex holds out his hand. George shakes it. They part ways. And that’s that.

-

He finds Angelica curled up on the living room sectional, the _New York Times_ spread out across her lap and on the coffee table, one of Eliza’s pottery mugs in her hand. 

“How was the zoo?” she asks without looking up from the opinion section. Angie’s seated at the kitchen island, highlighting the page of a text book, wearing her earbuds. 

“Do you want to tell Aunt Angelica about our trip?” Alex asks Will, heading into the kitchen and dropping his messenger bag on the island. Will plops down on the living room floor, opening up the shopping bag from the gift shop and pulling out the jigsaw puzzle box to show Angelica. Then, he’s off - excitedly rambling on about their day. 

Alex sets his MacBook up across from Angie. She looks up and pulls one ear bud out.

“Hey, dad.”

“Hey, sweetie,” he says, squeezing her shoulder as he circles over to the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Have a good day at school?”

Angie shrugs, twirling the earbud cord around her finger and shutting her textbook. “Yeah. It was OK.” 

Alex just nods and fires up his laptop. He wouldn’t say his relationship with Angie has soured since they lost Eliza and Philip. That’s not it. They’ve always been close. But Alex knows it’s different for her - losing her mother at fourteen, during what will be the most formative years of her life as a young woman. That’s something he’ll never be able to fully comprehend, a void he’ll never be able to fill. He’s thankful for Angelica. But he knows it’s not the same. 

“Angie, we got something for you,” Will says, running over to the kitchen island with the elephant scarf clutched in his fist. He holds it out to her. “We got it for free! Mr. Washington took us to the store and we just got to walk out without spending any money! It was so cool!”

From the couch, Angelica lowers the newspaper, her eyes narrowing. Angie takes the scarf hesitantly. 

“Uh, dad?”

“We didn’t steal anything,” Alex clarifies, taking a sip of his beer and pulling his email up on his laptop. “It’s a long story.”

And, frankly, it’s a story even he doesn’t fully comprehend.

He half-listens as Will continues to recount their evening, cracking a smile whenever he describes George - _he was so tall, he made dad look little_ and _he knew all about the penguins and the seals._

That’s when his curiosity gets the best of him. It suddenly doesn’t feel right - that this man who made such a difference in Will’s day - in _his_ day - is just gone. Alex can’t pinpoint what it is, exactly, that he wants. 

So he opens a new tab and types _“George Washington New York City”_ into the Google search bar. The first result is a blog post from the Central Park Zoo, with the headline _“Manhattan prosecutor donates $90K to Wildlife Conservation Society.”_

Alex raises his eyebrows. Well. That explains…a lot.

The other results are mostly news stories he’s quoted in. The sentencing for some sexual assault case involving a couple NYU students, a preliminary hearing for a triple homicide in Harlem. And then, a few results down, he finds a link to the New York County District Attorney’s Office website. He clicks through and finds George’s name listed under the header “Meet the Executive Team,” next to a striking black and white headshot. He looks about ten years younger.

_George Washington serves as Chief Assistant District Attorney. In that capacity, he oversees all aspects of the Office’s work and acts in the District Attorney’s place when he is absent. Mr. Washington joined the office in…_

Alex doesn’t read the rest of the biography. Instead, he picks his phone off the counter and shoots a text to Burr. If Washington works at the DA’s office, Burr will have his email address. 

A hand falls between his shoulder blades and he nearly jumps out of his stool. When he looks up, he realizes both Will and Angie have retreated to their rooms.

“I’m going to head out,” Angelica says, already in her jacket, her tangerine Hermes Birkin tote hooked over her elbow. “It sounds like Will made a friend?”

Alex laughs. “I guess you could say that.”

Angelica smiles. “You get any words of wisdom today?”

“Let’s see. Burr essentially told me I should have my shit in order by now and disguised it as - ” Alex makes air quotes and lowers his voice, doing his best Burr impression. “‘Just trying to look out for you, man.’”

Angelica rolls her eyes. “I think I have you beat. I got an ‘at least you still have Peggy?’”

Alex’s jaw drops and Angelica smirks, nodding. 

“I think they meant it - ”

“I know how they meant it,” Angelica says, leaning forward and kissing him once on each cheek. “Doesn’t make it any better. See you at work tomorrow.”

Alex watches her disappear down the hallway, heeled booties clicking lightly on the hardwood floors. He hears the front door open and close.

The house is uncomfortably silent for a moment or two, and then his phone vibrates with a text from Burr.

[ _gwashington@manhattanda.com_ ](mailto:GWashington@manhattanda.com) _. Why?_

Alex doesn’t answer. He pulls up a blank email and stares at the blinking text cursor. He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous. All he has to do is type up a few sentences, thank him again - that’s it. He writes and rewrites the email twice before he’s finally satisfied.

_Mr. Washington,_

_Will was still talking about our trip to the zoo when we got home tonight. You really did make his day. I think he’s in his room trying to assemble that puzzle now._

After a moment’s hesitation, he adds on another sentence.

_It’s been a rough few months for us. It’s a relief to know there are still some good people out there._

_Sincerely,_

_Alex Hamilton_

He sends the email before he can overthink it - and then immediately curses under his breath. He didn’t even bother to explain where he got George’s email address. Perfect. 

_It doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself, rubbing his hands over his face, groaning. George was just a friendly guy who wanted to do something nice - he probably didn’t pay for the tickets, either. He doesn’t need to dwell on this. 

His inbox updates with a quiet _ping_. A new email pops up at the top. His heart flutters in his chest - but then he sees the name next to the subject line. Thomas Paine. 

_Alex,_

_Let’s meet when you come in tomorrow. I’ll expect to see you at 9 a.m. We need to touch base._

_Thanks._

_Tom_

Alex slams his laptop shut. 

Fucking Burr. 


	4. Chapter 4

Alex shows up to work a half-hour early. 

Overcompensating now isn’t going to do much if Paine is already set on firing him, but his tension hasn’t lessened since reading the email. The extra half hour gives him time. Time to process and unwind, figure out how the fuck he’s going to explain himself. Even though he thinks _single-father-trying-to-get-his-kids-to-school-on-time_ is a pretty solid excuse. 

He’s mulling over his options as he sets up his laptop. He’s not in a position to just quit his job, though that would be the easiest and most satisfying solution. He could try to talk Paine into switching around his hours - maybe let him work from home or do the occasional half-day. There’s got to be something. 

He can feel his chest tightening, feel the panic starting to sink in, when he sees it - an unread email from George Washington with a 7:06 a.m. timestamp sitting at the top of his inbox. It takes him a few seconds to remember - he wrote to him last night. Right. 

_Alex,_

_Meeting you and your son was a pleasure. Glad to hear Will had a nice time._

_By the way, how did you get my email?_

_George_

Alex groans. He’d hoped George would just see his company email address and connect the dots - realize that he worked with Burr and let it be. He’s typing and retyping a response when the office door opens and slams shut. Speak of the devil —

“Alexander,” Burr demands, behind him. “What did you want with George Washington’s email?”

Alex swivels his chair around to face him. Burr - brow creased, thin arms crossed tightly across his chest - looks positively livid. If he wasn’t worried about losing his job, Alex would find it amusing. He already knows, right off the bat, that this has nothing to do with asking for George’s email and everything to do with ignoring Burr’s text from the night before. 

“I ran into him yesterday and wanted to thank him for something,” Alex says with an apathetic shrug, enjoying toying with him. He twists his chair back around to face his desk. “Thanks for sending it to me.”

Burr scoffs. Alex knows he’s being petty, but he doesn’t care. Not when he’s almost certain Burr’s the one who blabbed to Paine about his inconsistent hours. Not when Burr could very likely be the reason he gets canned, with two kids depending solely on him. 

The office door squeaks open again and there’s a light rap on the doorframe. Alex wheels back around. There’s Paine in one of his trademark ill-fitting suits, receding hairline and all. 

“Hamilton? My office.”

Paine shoots him a tight-lipped smile before slinking off. Burr stares after him, slack-jawed. 

“Yeah,” Alex hisses under his breath, climbing to his feet and shouldering past Burr. “Thanks a lot.”

But the look Burr gives him, some mix of pity and dread, tells him - no. This isn’t Burr’s doing. This is all on him. For not listening when Burr warned him. For not going to Paine when his schedule started falling apart. A voice in a dark corner of his mind taunts him. _You fucked up again._

“Tom,” Alex starts before Paine has even closed his office door and sunk into his chair, looking world-weary. “Look, you know I’m the hardest worker here. For Christ’s sake, you promoted me to managing editor for a reason. I get my shit done in half - hell, not even half - a quarter of the time it takes everyone else. I know my schedule has been fucked up. I know it’s been nine months. But all my work is always done on time. Before the deadlines, even. Come on. I need you to cut me some slack here.”

Paine huffs out a resigned sigh. “Hamilton. Sit.”

Alex drops into the chair across from Paine’s desk and waits. Paine looks at him for a beat, then sighs again.

“You know I’m sympathetic to your situation,” he says, and Alex has to hold in a groan - that’s so typical. So expected. “But the truth is, it’s not good for morale. You coming in late and leaving early - as an _editor?_ \- the team sees that. And it doesn’t look good.”

“Let me make sure I’m hearing this right,” Alex says. “The death of half of my family makes me look like I’m not being a team player.”

Paine cringes at that. “You’re being difficult. Here’s what I’m suggesting: A performance improvement plan - ”

“My _performance_ is fine - ”

“-You come in at 9 a.m. every morning. You leave by 5 p.m. You stay late if the workload calls for it. It’s honestly not so much of a plan as it is me just asking you to do your job. I’ll give you a week to figure something out with your kids - a babysitter, nanny whatever. You’re not the only single father in New York City. It’s time to stop acting like one.”

Alex doesn’t respond. He knows if he does, that’s it - he’ll do something he’ll regret. Quit on the spot. Flip Paine off and actually get fired. He thinks of his kids, instead. Takes a calming breath, and nods.

“Fine,” he says. “OK.”

Paine’s lips curl into a smile that Alex doesn’t return. “So we’re on the same page?”

“We’re on the same page.”

“Good. Now. While I have you here. Jay was going to cover that gala for Jefferson tonight, but he’s down with the flu. He’s going to have enough shit to catch up on, whenever he gets back. Are you good with taking the lead on that profile? Gala’s at 7 p.m.”

Alex stares. “Thomas Jefferson.”

Paine gives him a tired look. “He’s the youngest president in Columbia’s history. He’s new to the role. It’s timely, it’s a story. What, would you rather I have Angelica –”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Alex says, grinding his teeth and heading for the door. Great. He hasn’t seen Jefferson since the funeral - hasn’t had any reason to see him, thank the fucking Lord. He’s certainly not looking forward to Jefferson feigning interest in his family’s well-being; not when he’s already well-aware of what he thinks of him and his marriage. Alex is good at putting on a convincing front - but being called an opportunist and a leech? That’s something he’s never quite been able to shake. Even after all these years. He turns back around. “I can’t claim that this is a conflict of interest?”

“No.”

Alex closes the door behind him and curses under his breath.

Fuck.

He’s going to have to find a babysitter.

-

“Alex. Angie is fourteen. She’s old enough to watch William.”

He’s sitting with Angelica in Bryant Park, a carryout box full of empanadas placed between them on the bistro table. The weather is still calm and cool and Angelica, dressed in an olive leather jacket and a light scarf, has already embraced her autumn wardrobe. Alex notices she’s wearing a berry-colored lipstick. He’s never really seen her without makeup. Even after Eliza died. He still doesn’t get it – how she could just wake up every morning and follow the same routine. Go for a run, put on her lipstick, iron her clothes. Keep going.

“We’ve never really left them alone,” Alex says. “I don’t – what if they need an adult?”

“Angie has your number and she has mine,” Angelica says patiently. “She’ll call.”

“Neither of us will even be in Brooklyn if something happens.”

Angelica delicately splits an empanada in two, tosses the other half back into the box, and sighs. “Some responsibility might be good for her. You know I would watch them, but I can’t cancel on Peggy a third time. She needs me, too.”

He gets that. He does. But he’s not OK with being uptown while his kids are all the way in Park Slope, an hour away on a good day. He’s just hasn’t reached that point yet. 

“I’ll figure something out.”

Angelica softens. “Look, if you need me to, I can always have Peggy come to Brooklyn.”

Alex shakes his head. Angelica will always be in his corner, regardless, but he also knows he’s been relying on her more than he should. He knows her friendships have suffered, that she hasn’t dated – not really. That her days outside of work are usually spent helping Alex around the house before retreating to her own a few blocks down. She’d sold her own place in Lenox Hill, just to be closer to them. Uprooted her entire life without a single complaint. 

In the back of his mind, he knows he needs to be looking out for her. In the same way she’s looked out for him.

“Go spend time with Peggy,” he says. “I have an idea.”

Angelica has a meeting across town, so Alex heads back to the office alone. He finds Burr sitting at his desk picking at a kale salad, earbuds in and scrolling through his iPad. 

“So you know a lot about the guys over at the DA’s office, right?” he asks, leaning against the side of Burr’s desk. 

Burr pulls an earbud out and looks up at him warily. “Well, yeah. Why?”

“Anything I should know about George Washington?”

Burr’s face falls, just slightly. It’s enough to show Alex there’s something Burr’s not telling him. Whatever it is, it’s gone almost as soon as he notices.

“What about him?” he asks slowly. “He’s the Chief Assistant. Right under Mercer. But Mercer’s hardly there to begin, just because he’s getting old and doesn’t give a shit anymore. Washington’s basically the de facto DA. Not a whole lot to know.”

“I mean – he’s been a source of yours ever since you started working this beat, right? He’s not a shady guy? You don’t have any dirt on him?”

Burr actually laughs, breaking out into a perfect, gleaming smile. Alex quirks an eyebrow. 

“George Washington? He is literally, maybe, the most boring, stiff, straight-laced guy I know. Strikes me as a bit of a dick, honestly. Runs a pretty tight ship.” Burr snorts before adding, “But his staff really seem to love him, so I guess he’s got that going for him.”

Alex frowns. _‘Bit of a dick’_ gives him pause. Those aren’t exactly the words he’d use to describe the man who went out of his way to take William to the zoo. Then again, it’s Burr. So he takes it with a grain of salt.

“Why are you suddenly all interested in Washington?” Burr calls after him as he walks back to his own desk, brushing his fingers across his trackpad and waking his laptop up. The unanswered email from George stares back at him on the monitor.

“No reason,” Alex answers, distracted as he types back his response.

_George,_

_Got your email from a colleague here at the_ Gazette. 

_Can I call you?_

_Alex_

-

George rings the bell while Alex is still pulling on his suit - a bottle-green two-piece Eliza picked out last year for Philip’s graduation. 

It used to fit like a glove. Now he fastens his belt in a couple of extra notches. The fabric across his shoulders is a little loose, the fit in the thigh not as flattering. There’s no way of knowing how much weight he’s lost since February, figures he’ll worry about that if it gets to the point where he’s buying new clothes.

“Hey,” Alex greets him at the door, barefoot, his hair a tangled, loose mess. “You’re here early. That’s great. Come in.”

He’s not sure why he expected George to be dressed up, too. He guesses that’s just how he’s engrained in his mind now - the suit in the park. Instead, he’s wearing a dark gray cable-knit sweater and black slacks, the leather strap of his messenger bag snug across his chest.

“Thanks again for doing this,” he says, stepping back to let George through the door. “I really do appreciate it.”

George cracks a smile and looks around, taking in the living room. It’s a bit messy - Angie’s textbooks littering the coffee table, Will’s half-assembled LEGO castle shoved to a far corner, their fall jackets draped over the back of the couch. But George doesn’t seem to notice or mind.

“You have a beautiful home,” he says, setting his bag down next to the couch. 

Alex gives him a brief tour of the front rooms and stops in the kitchen to go over dinner - _“you don’t have to cook for them, there’s $30 on the counter for carryout or something, but you’re free to use whatever you need in here”_ \- and then heads down the hall to show him the bathroom, grabbing his hairbrush as they walk out. 

They’re going back to the main room when Will comes barreling down the staircase, Angie trailing after him. He runs straight into George’s legs, squeezing him around the waist. Alex nearly snaps, but then George is laughing and crouching down to hug him back.

“Dad said you’re watching us tonight!” Will says, grinning. “Do you like LEGOs?”

“I love LEGOs.”

Angie, already in her pajamas, stays at the base of the staircase, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Alex steps up next to her and puts an arm tight around her shoulders, giving her a little squeeze.

“George, this is my daughter, Angie. Angie, this is Mr. Washington.”

George stands back up and greets her with a firm handshake and a kind smile. Angie regards him carefully for a moment, tucks a dark strand of hair behind her ear, and then smiles, too. A little shy. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says politely, eyes flickering to Alex’s for a moment. “Dad said you work for the District Attorney’s office?”

“I do.”

“Angie wants to study law,” Alex offers, nudging her with his elbow. “You should definitely pick Mr. Washington’s brain.”

“Yeah,” Angie agrees, though Alex detects the uncertainty laced in her voice. “I have a lot of homework to do so I think I’m just going to be up in my room tonight.”

Alex shrugs and Angie heads back up the stairs, shooting George a strained smile before disappearing back down the upstairs hallway. Will is already sorting through his LEGOs in the corner. 

“She’s a sweet girl,” Alex explains off of George’s puzzled look. “She’s usually in her room when I’m around, too, so don’t be too offended.” 

George only nods, shoving his hands deep in his pockets while Alex tugs on his shoes and starts running his brush through his hair, loosening the tangles. He feels a sudden, unwelcome rush of panic settle in the pit of his stomach. George, despite his honorable profession, Burr’s reassurances, everything he did for Will at the zoo, is still fundamentally, a stranger. He’s leaving his kids with some guy he met _yesterday_. 

Eliza would kill him.

He freezes, mid-brush. He can’t leave. He’s trying to figure out what to say to George, how to explain himself without sounding like a total ass, when George frowns and digs his phone out of his pocket.

“The shellfish allergy,” he says. “That’s Angie not Will, right?”

Alex blinks. “Yeah.”

George nods and types a note into his phone. “Got it. Sorry. I don’t want to mix that up.”

Alex sucks in his bottom lip and nods. OK. Yes. He can do this. 

“You have my phone number, so just call if you need _anything_ ,” he says, gathering his hair in his fist. He’s about to tie it up when George, watching him, hums low in his throat. Almost thoughtful.

“What?” Alex asks, stilling.

“You should leave it down - your hair, that is,” George says, shrugging. “It looks nice like that.”

Alex loosens his grip and lets his hair fall back to his shoulders, combing it down with his fingers. George’s eyes sweep over him. He nods his approval. 

“You look good, Alex.”

He feels a blush creep into his cheeks - weird. He’s not embarrassed or flustered or anything, really. Yet his entire face feels like it’s caught fire. It doesn’t ease up until he steps outside and sucks in a sharp breath, like he’s coming up for air.


	5. Chapter 5

Alex uses the train ride to write out his interview questions for Jefferson in his notebook. It’s a nice distraction. He tries to avoid the 1 train whenever possible, now – it’s too painful. The footage from that cold afternoon in February is still vivid in his mind. The split subway car flat on its side, paramedics carrying mangled bodies on stretchers. 

Some of the survivors, later, would describe it as dreamlike and otherworldly. He thinks that’s the standard response. _It never felt like it was happening to me._ For so long, Alex found himself hating the people who lived. Felt physically ill every time he turned on the news in the following weeks to find yet another 20-something Midwestern transplant dabbing the corners of her eyes, whining about how _blessed_ she was to be alive.

He checks his phone as soon as he’s above ground, his stomach doing somersaults when he sees two unread texts from George. He reminds himself that he’s only been unreachable for a little over an hour and, really, it’s _fine_. And George’s texts confirm that.

_[6:32 p.m.] Do you have a strainer?_

_[6:46 p.m.] Disregard. Found it._

Alex frowns and types _“I told you not to worry about cooking.”_ He waits for the blinking ellipses at the bottom of the screen, but George doesn’t write back. It’s fine, but George is going to learn just how fucking picky his kids can be.

Stepping into Faculty House, the setup for Jefferson’s welcoming gala is just as gaudy and infuriating as he expected – sleek black tables lined with intricately stacked rose, lavender and pistachio macarons. Wide-eyed waiters with silver trays of champagne flutes, awkwardly circling clusters of people. There’s even a goddamn baby grand piano tucked in the corner. 

He wonders what would happen if he knocked over one of the macaron towers. Just fucking swept his arm right through one.

Jefferson is dressed in a checkered brown three-piece suit, standing in the center of the room and surrounded by Columbia faculty. He spots Alex and whispers something to the man next to him, smiling slyly. Almost catlike. 

Alex feels that familiar anxiety burn in the pit of his stomach. He’s not a cripplingly insecure 22-year-old anymore, worrying what his fiancée’s friends think of him. But God, Jefferson has always found a way to bring out the worst in him. 

“Alexander,” Jefferson says, shouldering through his guests and over to Alex, Alex’s name thick on his tongue. He’s got one hand placed over his heart, clutching his chest, and Alex already knows what’s coming. “It’s been so long. Tell me - how are your children?”

Alex grabs a champagne flute off a passing tray. He’s going to need it. 

“The kids are good,” he says after taking a long sip. He’s not going to elaborate. Knows Jefferson doesn’t really give a shit. He forces out the next bit. “Congratulations on the new job.”

Jefferson smirks and gestures around the room. “Can you believe the university put all this together? For me? I’m honored you could make it. And you have to try the fried goat cheese balls, but _with_ the blackberry ketchup.”

Alex’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. But he manages what he’s sure looks like an overly-enthusiastic smile. “Actually, I think this is Columbia tradition for every incoming president. And I’m here on official business. That profile Jay was going to write up for the _Gazette_? I’m taking the lead. So, I’m thinking we just knock the interview out tonight.”

Jefferson takes a step back and looks him up and down. The mood - however contrived it was - has shifted. Jefferson’s eyes land on Alex’s shoes. He scoffs. “Set it up with my secretary. I’m not speaking with press tonight.”

“Yeah, but you see, if we talk tonight we won’t have to see each other again,” Alex offers. Might as well voice what they’re both thinking.

“Set it up with my secretary,” Jefferson repeats. He’s dropped the whole gracious host  façade . “I have actual guests to take care of. Though, plenty of Eliza’s coworkers from the School of Social Work are here tonight. I’m sure they’d love to see you, considering you’ve all but fallen off the face of the Earth since the funeral.”

Alex’s face drops. He downs the last couple sips of his champagne and passes the glass off to a waiter. Any other night, he thinks, he’d go straight for Jefferson’s jugular. But he barely had the energy to make it to the shower this morning. And, well, he’s here for his job. A job he’s barely holding on to. He takes Eliza’s advice, even now, and lets it go. 

“I should be heading out, if we’re done here,” he says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. He’s not used to wearing it down, and he’s found himself fiddling with it since he left the house. “Good night, Thomas.”

He’s already heading for the exit when he hears, behind him - “Tell your sister-in-law I said ‘hi.’ A shame she couldn’t make it tonight.”

Alex doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. He knows, if he turns back around, he’ll be met with that cunning, curling grin. 

—

He’s hit with the scent of lemons as soon as he steps into the foyer. He doesn’t quite know why, but he’s immediately irritated. He _told_ George to just buy the kids takeout. That line of thought leads to a guilt spiral, though, because he can’t really remember the last time he cooked for Angie and William from scratch instead of handing them a stack of delivery menus. And, god, he used to _love_ cooking. What the fuck ever happened to that? His chest is tightening and he’s on the verge of what feels like a full-on breakdown when he steps into the kitchen and finds George loading the dishwasher. There’s a plate of still-hot pasta sitting on the island, a fork and knife placed next to it.

“You’re home early,” George says, closing the dishwasher and stepping behind one of the island stools. Alex watches his hands fall on the back of the chair, watches the way his fingers curl around the woodwork. Then his eyes fall to the plate of pasta. He feels like he’s about to cry.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, blinking a couple of times until it passes. George notices - he can tell by the way he quirks his eyebrow, inviting an explanation without outright asking for one. “The night it - it didn’t really go as planned. It was, actually, if you include the commute, two-and-a-half hours of my life, wasted.”

George pulls the stool out for him and nods down at the pasta. “I thought you might be hungry. I know how those things go - lots of wine, not enough food.”

Alex climbs up into the seat and leans back, feeling the pressure of George’s knuckles against his shoulder blades before he moves his hands away, lightning fast. 

“It’s an asparagus pasta with grilled chicken and a homemade lemon cream sauce,” George says, sitting in the stool next to him. It smells heavenly. Alex eagerly twirls the noodles around his fork and pops it into his mouth, closing his eyes and relishing the taste. It really has been too long since he’s had something from his own kitchen. 

“This is incredible,” Alex says around a mouthful. Then looks down at his plate, swallowing. “Wait - where did you get all of this?”

George smiles, a bit guiltily. 

“I had some groceries delivered,” he says carefully. “It just looked like you could use a few things restocked.”

Strangely enough, the gesture doesn’t make Alex feel pathetic. Mostly because he doesn’t sense that George is doing these things - taking Will to the zoo, agreeing to babysit, buying them fucking groceries, cooking dinner - out of pity. And pity is all that seems to motivate the people around him, now. George is here because, for god knows what reason, he wants to be. 

“Thank you,” Alex says, and he means it. He doesn’t offer to pay him back - he already knows that’ll be a losing battle. “The kids - ?”

“Are in bed,” George says. He looks at the food on Alex’s plate a bit forlornly. “They both had dinner, but I’m not sure how much Will liked the food. There are plenty of leftovers in the fridge, by the way. It should reheat well enough for lunch.”

Alex shovels more pasta into his mouth, surprised at how hungry he actually is. George slides off the chair and busies himself around the kitchen, wiping down the countertops and refilling the salt and pepper shakers. Alex looks out into the living room and sees that the clutter from earlier has been tidied up, too. George does this well. Almost too well. He already thinks he knows the answer - he would’ve noticed the wedding band. But he asks, anyway.

“Do you have any kids, George? Are you married?” he asks, scraping the leftover lemon sauce off his plate and licking it from his fork. He sees George’s shoulders tense, and he almost panics, worried he’s hit a sore spot. George turns around to face him, leaning back against the countertops, silent for a moment.

“Well - getting married. It wasn’t exactly easy until 2011.”

Alex frowns, confused, and then it hits him. Oh. _Oh._

“I’m sorry,” Alex says, a little flustered, a little embarrassed. “I know better than to just assume - ”

George shrugs, unbothered. “It’s fine. But no - I’m not married, and no children.” He chuckles. “I’m getting too old for it at this point, to tell you the truth. I would’ve loved to settle down, but I wasn’t out until my mid-30s. The 1980s - it wasn’t exactly the best climate, as a public official, and on top of family expectations…well, by the time I was publicly out, I was so immersed in my career that the idea of having a family, not only was it on the back burner, but it didn’t seem feasible.” 

“That’s fair,” Alex says. George holds out his hand for Alex’s empty plate. He passes it over to him. “Eliza and I - we got married when we were only twenty-two and had our first son by the time we were twenty-three. Practically babies ourselves, you know? And looking back, I wouldn’t ever change that, but when I think about it - how I’ve had a family for almost as long as I’ve been a legal adult? Who let us do that?”

George laughs and Alex is caught off guard by how much he actually enjoys the sound of it. He remembers it from their evening at the zoo - God, only yesterday - how it just made him feel _good_. He likes the way it makes the fine lines around George’s eyes look more pronounced, the way it makes his broad shoulders shake a little. When George looks at him again, brown eyes shining, he feels something shift within him. Something’s changed, though he can’t put his finger on what. But for a split second, he feels OK.

“That reminds me, I meant to ask,” George says. “Your eldest son? I saw the photos in the hallway. ”

Alex freezes. _No, no, no, no, no._

“Is he away for school - ?”

Alex sucks his lips over his teeth and bites down. It’s been almost a year, true, but this part - it’s one he doubts will ever get any easier. 

“I lost my son when I lost my wife,” Alex says. And George, laughing not a minute ago, suddenly looks like all the life has been knocked out of him. 

“Oh, Alex - I didn’t - ”

“How could you know?” Alex chokes out a laugh. His eyes start to burn. Great. “I’ve just had a really shitty night. I brought you over to watch my kids for what turned out to be a colossal waste of time, got called out for ignoring my wife’s friends by someone who once called my marriage a _sham_ , and I’m pretty sure my sister-in-law is making some extremely troubling grief-induced decisions. So I’m not - I’m not avoiding this discussion, if it’s one you even want to have, I honestly, really, just want to go to bed.”

Alex props his elbows up on the island and drops his face in his hands. He’s pretty sure he’s not going to cry - he can usually keep that under control around other people, around the kids. He hears heavy footsteps on the kitchen tiles and then a strong hand on his back, right between his shoulder blades - hesitant at first, and then firm pressure.

“Should I let you get some rest?” George asks quietly, still behind Alex, his hand slipping off his shoulder and to the back of his chair. Alex rubs at his face and twists around to look up at him.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’ll walk you out.”

George nods, gives him the faintest hint of a smile, and crosses over into the living room to grab his bag. Alex watches him adjust the strap across his chest.

“Thank you for tonight,” Alex says, hoping that last moment wasn’t too much for George - too much information, too much _everything._ He slides off the stool and leads him to the door. He’s just starting to wonder under what circumstances he might see him again - if George even wants to see him again - when George pauses at the door and turns back around.

“I’ll be in your neck of the woods Monday,” he says. “Burr - he wants a sit-down to go over the details of this triple homicide case that might go to trial, wants to know what to expect for the evidentiary hearing. He asked me to come by the _Gazette_ offices. Maybe I’ll see you?”

Alex looks up at him and, his eyes - they’re steady and intense and so focused on Alex’s. Almost like he’s the only thing worth looking at, in that moment. It sends a pleasant chill down his spine. 

Alex nods, a little breathless. “You’ll see me. Burr and I share an office, unfortunately, so I’m pretty hard to miss. But yeah. Let me buy you lunch or something - as a thank you.”

George smiles as he steps out onto the front stoop. “OK. That sounds nice.”

Alex doubts he’ll actually be the one paying. But, he thinks, it’s an excuse to see him again.

So, it’s fine.

More than fine.


	6. Chapter 6

“Did you know,” Will says, stuffing his packed lunch in his backpack. “That Mr. Washington is really good at LEGOs? He told me he used to play with them when he was little, but they didn’t have a lot of the fun sets back then.”

Alex grins as he finishes spreading peanut butter onto Angie’s sandwich, sealing it up in a Ziploc baggie. It’s one of those rare mornings where they all seem to have woken up in a somewhat decent mood, a morning where the grief that’s seeped into the walls of their home has lessened. The kids are smiling, the morning sun is shining through the bay windows, Alex feels well-rested for once, doesn’t feel like his head is underwater. And, well, it’s Monday. He has lunch plans. It feels good to have lunch plans again.

“You’ve only talked about him nonstop since last week,” Angie says, shrugging on her jacket and rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. “We know.”

“Hey, attitude,” Alex says, gathering up his laptop bag and house keys, patting his back pockets until he locates his wallet. “I’m seeing Mr. Washington today, so I’ll be sure to tell him he’s got some serious LEGO skills.”

Angie blinks slowly, eyebrows raised. Alex almost laughs - that, he thinks, she definitely got from her mother. The tell-tale, _explain yourself_ look. But it passes as they all shuffle through the front door.

He gets the kids to school earlier than usual and steps into his office just a few minutes after 9 a.m. Angelica’s already there, sitting in the chair next to Burr’s desk, sipping her morning coffee and paging through a _New Yorker._ Something truly must be in the air today, he thinks, if Angelica is willingly within five feet of Burr.

She looks up and cocks her head to one side. “Your hair is down.”

Alex stops in the doorway and touches the ends of his hair and, Jesus, he’s in desperate need of a trim. He shrugs. “Huh. Guess I forgot to pull it up.”

Burr looks up from where he’s scribbling on a legal pad, does a double-take. “What the fuck.”

Angelica looks him over, eyes narrowing. “That’s actually not a bad look for you.”

Alex is scanning his desk for a forgotten hair tie, rubber band, anything, when Burr sets his pen down and leans back in his chair, studying him. “When have you ever forgotten to pull your hair up - ?”

“OK, that’s enough of that,” Alex cuts him off, sliding into his chair and hiding behind the cubicle wall. “Didn’t realize I was going to get psychoanalyzed for wearing my hair a little different today. Jesus Christ.”

Angelica shrugs and tosses the _New Yorker_ back on Burr’s desk before circling around to Alex’s side of the cube.

“You look handsome,” she says, reaching playfully for the back of his head. Alex twists away, glaring. “Anyway, I have interviews booked all day with prospective winter semester interns. Hopefully, I’ll return.”

“Godspeed,” Alex calls after her, firing up his laptop, his heart sinking a little when he recalls Jefferson’s parting words at the welcoming gala. Eventually, he thinks, he and Angelica are going to need to have a talk. He can’t imagine it’ll be pretty.

He spends the morning answering neglected emails and puts in a call to Jefferson’s secretary. She shoots down every single date and time he suggests for their interview, tells Alex she’ll call back when his “busy schedule” has cleared and hangs up. Alex can’t help but laugh at that - he knows Jefferson’s just trying to make his life hell, make him work for it. He’s never really been one to turn down the spotlight.

He’s starting to feel restless when the receptionist brings George into the office, dressed in a neat olive-gray suit with a leather portfolio tucked under one arm. He steps behind Alex’s chair first, not bothering to acknowledge Burr.

“Hey. Good morning,” Alex says, twisting around to look up at him. “We still on for lunch after your meeting?”

George smiles. “Absolutely. Anywhere in mind? I’m not around Bryant Park too often.”

Alex opens his mouth to answer, but he’s distracted by the sound of Burr jumping up from his desk and rounding the cubicle corner, eyes darting back and forth between Alex and George.

“Mr. Washington, so glad you could make it,” he interrupts with forced gusto, pointedly glaring at Alex as he steps between his chair and George. George steps back, eyes meeting his over Burr’s shoulder. Alex pulls a face, grinning when George has to bite down on his lip to keep from smiling.

Burr starts shepherding him toward the door. “I’ll get you some coffee. We can sit down somewhere less distracting.”

Alex watches them until they’re down the hallway, out of sight, and decides today is the day he figures out what the fuck is going on between them.

He kills time on the Internet, too distracted to tackle any actual work, until they return about an hour later, Burr with a stack of copies clutched in one hand.

“-So you think there’s enough evidence to move forward with a trial?”

“Well, we’ll know for sure on Thursday, but we are expecting the bloodstains on Conway’s shirt to match up with at least one of the victims. That, combined with the security footage we’re pulling from the bar, should be more than enough.” George shrugs. “Nevertheless, I’d mark your calendar for the first week of December, maybe the second. That’s what we’re aiming for.” 

Burr nods and scribbles a note on one of the copies. George turns to Alex. Smiles. “Ready?”

Alex shuts his laptop and stands, ignoring Burr, even as he feels his eyes following him. It’s not really funny anymore - it’s just fucking weird.

They agree on a sushi spot a couple of blocks away, right across from the library, as Alex leads him down the stairwell and onto the sidewalk. He waits for a swarm of Italian tourists to pass before pointing him across the street.

“So - I don’t know what kind of magic you worked with those LEGOs last week, but Will is still talking about it,” Alex says, grinning over at him as they walk shoulder to shoulder. “Really, though. You were kind of a hit with them. I tried to recreate that pasta and Angie told me it wasn’t as good as yours.”

George snorts, grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him just slightly to the side as a man in a business suit shoves past them, yelling into his earpiece. George keeps his grip on his forearm a little longer than necessary, giving him a gentle squeeze before letting go. Alex’s heart leaps in his chest but George just keeps walking, seemingly unbothered. He wonders if he’s just the kind of guy who doesn’t think twice about a familiar brush of the fingertips or a guiding hand on a shoulder. And they are kind of friends now, right? They stop at an intersection, and Alex decides that now is as good a time to ask as any.

“You and Burr,” Alex says, watching the flashing red hand on the crosswalk sign. “You guys aren’t - you never - ”

George flashes him a withering look and Alex groans, then laughs.

“OK - no. I have a legitimate reason for asking this. I mean, you saw how he acted today, right? Like all awkward and jumpy? He kind of lost his shit when I asked him for your email last week.”

“So your first thought is scorned ex-lover? Isn’t he married? To a woman?”

Alex laughs harder, realizing just how ridiculous it all sounds now, out loud. “Hey now, that doesn’t mean anything. And I don’t know what he gets up to in his free time, OK? But, seriously, what’s up?”

George still seems a bit taken aback by Alex’s assessment, but he shakes it off, nudging him forward when the crosswalk sign changes. “There’s not a whole lot to tell. It happened maybe fifteen years ago. He’d just graduated from Columbia and interviewed for a junior associate position at a firm where, at the time, I was a partner. He had stellar references, some truly impressive internships on his CV, but we decided he wasn’t a good fit and never gave him an offer. When he asked why, I told him the truth.”

“Wait, seriously? I knew he was a Columbia grad but I always assumed it was from the School of Journalism. Why didn’t you hire him?”

George shrugs. “On paper, he was a great candidate. In the interview, he name-dropped. Said everything we wanted to hear. I didn’t exactly get the feeling he wanted the position for the right reasons or had anything particularly new to bring to the table. Anyhow, I think he worked at a competing firm for a while before throwing in the towel, but he never really let it go. Honestly, Alex, it’s not exactly a flattering story and he was probably just worried you’d find out.”

“…Which I just did,” Alex says. “I mean, it was fifteen years ago. I don’t care.”

George shrugs again as they fall into the line trailing outside of their restaurant. “Well, in your industry you don’t exactly want to be perceived as untrustworthy, do you?”

“True,” Alex says. And it makes sense, the more he thinks about it. Burr is an intensely private guy, has always had a bit of a competitive side that only seems to surface with Alex. Truthfully, Alex feels a little sorry for him. “Well, I’m not going to say anything about it.”

George nods. They stand in comfortable silence for a moment and then George laughs quietly to himself, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you - Burr, for the record, is not even my type.”

“Oh?” Alex says, wiggling his eyebrows. George shoots him an intent look he can’t quite decode, but it makes Alex’s face heat up, just a bit. He’s glad he’s wearing his hair down - it covers the tips of his ears.

“You seem - it seems like you’re in high spirits today,” George says as they move up a couple of spots in line. Alex cringes, the memories of the evening George babysat flooding back.

“Yeah. Sorry about the other night,” he mutters. “It comes and goes. Some days things feel OK, and it’s like the kids and I have created a new normal, you know? And then other days - most days, honestly - I feel the same way I did that afternoon I got the phone call. There’s no way to really predict it. It just is what it is.”

“I can only imagine,” George says. “And, Alex. You don’t have to apologize.”

No judgment, no forced compassion. Alex swears his guard is being stripped away, piece by piece. They may have only met last week, but he can feel something real building between them - a sense of trust, the realization that he could probably ask George for anything, and he’d go out of his way to make it happen.

They wait a few minutes longer before a waiter comes out to seat them at a table tucked away in the corner of the restaurant. They order a plate of baked crab rolls to share and George orders the steamed Chilean sea bass, Alex following his lead, trying not to think too much about what the bill will look like by the end of the meal. They talk - Alex, about his ongoing projects. Chasing down Jefferson for his profile. He’s surprised when George says he knows of Jefferson, and then realizes he shouldn’t be when George mentions he’s a Virginia native himself. Old money, he knows, overlaps in all sorts of mysterious ways. George fills him in on his murder case - a triple homicide at some bar in East Harlem, gang related, the NYPD is sure, though there’s only one suspect in custody.

It’s not exactly the most thrilling conversation, but it’s comfortable. It’s company. George watches him - hangs on to his every word when he speaks. Maybe stares a bit longer than needed when Alex first pops a crab roll into his mouth, making a content little sound in the back of his throat.

Their sea bass is on its way out of the kitchen when Alex’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He doesn’t ever send his calls to voicemail, not anymore, so he mutters a quick apology to George and fishes it out of his pocket. Berkeley Carroll School’s number pops up on the caller ID.

“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath, heart pounding as he accepts the call. “Hello?”

_“Mr. Hamilton? This is Berkeley Carroll, calling about your daughter.”_

“Yeah, I know,” he snaps. George is waving down their waiter, motioning for the check and a couple of to-go boxes. “What’s going on?”

_“Angie had an - altercation - today with another female student. We’d like you to come to the school as soon as possible. We have her here in the main office.”_

Alex pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, struggling to find the right words. There must be some sort of mistake. That doesn’t sound like his daughter.

“Is she - is she OK?” he asks. The waiter returns with their boxes and the bill. George slips him his credit card.

_“Yes, Mr. Hamilton. We’ll see you soon.”_

Alex hangs up and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to process. “Angie got into a fight at school. She’s OK, but I - I have to go.”

George nods, climbing to his feet and collecting their leftovers. Alex stands slowly, tugging on his jacket, and he’s hit with a realization that he doesn’t want to do this alone - doesn’t know if he _can_ do this by himself. Angie’s never been in trouble - grounded a couple of times for picking on William, sure, but that’s _it._ There’s no telling what he’s about to walk into and there’s a growing fear, in the darkest corner of his mind, that this is somehow his fault. He looks at George, swallows.

“Would you come with me?” he asks,

George doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course. Let’s go.”


	7. Chapter 7

“She’s such a good kid. I don’t get it, she’s never done anything wrong.”

Alex takes the concrete steps leading up to the school’s front entrance two at a time and waits for George, dutifully carting their to-go containers, at the top. Alex thinks, if he hadn’t paid for their lunch himself, he probably would’ve told George to throw out the boxes by now. The sea bass isn’t going to reheat well, the sushi rolls will likely fall apart by the time he gets home. What a waste of money.

“You’ve only heard one side of this story,” George says, joining Alex at the top of the stairs. “And not much of it. Just remember to hear her out. If she sees that you’re upset, too, it’s not going to make any of this easier.”

He’s right, but all Alex can think of, right now, is how disappointed Eliza would be.

Alex moves to open the door but stops, hand resting on the knob. He looks up at George and swallows. “Thanks for coming all the way out here with me and talking me through this. I just - this is kind of something my wife would’ve taken care of, you know? She really knew how to put the fear of God in our kids, when she needed to.”

George shakes his head. “There’s no need to thank me. Come on, we should go in.”

Alex leads him down the hall - empty, aside from a couple of kids sneaking out of class. George agrees to wait outside the main office, giving Alex’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze before he slips through the office door.

The secretary - a shrewd, frail woman who Alex is certain should’ve retired years ago - looks up from her computer, giving Alex a cutting look that almost makes it feel like _he’s_ the one in trouble.

“Your daughter shoved another student today, Mr. Hamilton,” she says. And then, kinder, “Given the circumstances we’re letting her off with a warning. But any future infractions will result in a suspension.”

Alex nearly rolls his eyes, but resists - the bubbling fear in the pit of his stomach overpowering any desire to challenge this woman. “OK, enough. Let me see her.”

Angie’s waiting in one of the back offices - physically unharmed, thank God, but sniffling with red-rimmed eyes and black mascara smudged under her eyelashes and across her cheekbone. Her face flushes pink when she looks up at Alex. When did she start wearing makeup?

“Daddy,” she says, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry.”

“Angel. What - ?”

“Some bitch in my - ”

“ _Language._ ”

Angie lets out an annoyed huff. “Some _girl_ in my Spanish class saw that picture of mom and Philip - the one that Aunt Angelica had framed for my locker. She said it was ‘childish.’ So, I pushed her. She’s _fine,_ daddy, I barely even touched her.”

Alex slides his hands over his face, squeezing his eyes shut, groaning. “Angel, baby, you can’t…”

He trails off, a nagging voice in his head reminding him that this was Eliza’s forte, never his. He doesn’t know what he can say to make this better, to drive whatever point he wants to make home. He should know by now, from years of watching his wife. He can’t really use the excuse of having a shitty dad or a dead mom for parents - not anymore.

“Listen, you know if there were no consequences I’d have your back on this,” he says. “That girl sounds like a fu- she sounds like a _delight_. But you’re at school and you’re my daughter and this can’t happen, OK? What if she’d hit you back?”

Angie blinks a couple of times, fresh tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “I got so mad, I didn’t even think about it. And then the principal told her - about what happened. And she was really sorry, but it was just embarrassing and I - yeah.”

He pulls up a chair next to her and sits down with a sigh, taking her hand in his. She squeezes.

“You’re not in trouble,” he says, wiping the mascara off her face with the pad of his thumb. “Just - you really freaked me out. Do you know how scary it was, getting that phone call? You and Will - you’re all I have.”

Angie shakes her head, then drops it against his shoulder. “Dad, you’re being a little dramatic.”

He cups the side of her head and holds her like that for a minute or two, doesn’t bother to explain what she can’t fully understand. He’d keep his phone off all day, if it were possible.

“I brought Mr. Washington with me,” he says, breaking the growing silence. She pulls back and looks up at him, brow creased. “We were having our lunch when the school called, Angie. Hey, if you’re embarrassed, I can tell him to go home -”

“No, it’s fine,” Angie says, sitting up straight and running the heel of her hand across her cheek, brushing away the last of the dried tears. And then she smiles, it’s slight, but he notices a light resurfacing in her eyes. “I’m glad you have a friend.”

Alex snorts. He’s pretty sure he’d be offended if it wasn’t coming from his daughter. And, OK, maybe he still is a little miffed. “I have friends.”

“Daddy, Aunt Angelica doesn’t count.”

They rejoin George outside the office, and Alex notices the to-go boxes have disappeared.

“The fish smelled horrible,” he says regretfully, shrugging. His eyes flash from Angie to Alex, and Alex shakes his head quickly and silently, a promise to explain later.

“I think I’m going to go ahead and take her home,” he says, resting a hand on Angie’s shoulder. And, he’s not certain, but he thinks he sees George’s face drop, just marginally. _Well, you did have him come all the way out to Brooklyn for virtually nothing, asshole, of course he’s annoyed._

And then, his stomach growls. Rather loudly.

Angie looks at George, and then back to Alex, guilty. “You guys didn’t get to eat much of your lunch, did you?”

—

Angie picks a greasy spoon a couple blocks from the school. It’s a traditional diner setup - red vinyl booths, black and white tiling, sticky laminated menus, the distinct scent of fried food in the air.

And George looks comically out of place, Alex realizes. George, in his custom-tailored Canali suit, giving the booth a once-over before sliding in.

He thinks it’s about to get worse when their waiter brings out his spinach salad which, Alex notes, completely lacks spinach and is instead a pile of Romaine lettuce. But George, to his credit, puts on a brave face and calmly picks out the cherry tomatoes.

“Oh my God,” Alex says, watching him scrape the ranch dressing off a browning lettuce leaf. “You’re a snob. This is amazing.”

George looks at him miserably. “This just isn’t what I’d usually eat.”

“He can’t be worse than mom,” Angie says duly, squeezing ketchup onto her hash browns before passing the bottle over to Alex, for his eggs. “Remember the time she found lipstick on her water glass at that place in Virginia Beach?”

“That, I try to forget,” Alex says. He glances back at George. “Seriously, though. You’re not going to be full off of that. Do you want some of my pancakes? They’re chocolate chip.”

George eyes his plate hesitantly. Sighs, and nods. “I’ll take one. Sure.”

They end up spending the next couple hours at the diner, and Alex is pleased to see that George and Angie seem to be getting along - she asks questions about his job, his education (University of Virginia for his bachelor’s, Columbia for his law degree, of course), seems to hang on to his every word when he discusses the ins and outs of applying to schools and LSAT prep (“You’ll want to take classes with an actual instructor. Don’t try to learn from just a book.”) And, despite the circumstances that brought the three of them together, Alex considers it to be a reasonably fun afternoon.

It’s nearly 3 o’clock by the time they wrap up. George pays, despite Alex’s protests, and offers to walk with them over to Will’s elementary school before heading back to Manhattan. George has proven time and time again he likes them - likes Alex, likes his kids, enjoys spending time with them - so Alex isn’t sure why his kindness, his gestures, are still catching him by surprise. It just makes the world feel a little off-kilter - someone other than Angelica, showing an interest in making them _happy_.

Will’s face lights up when he sees George, greets him with a hug that George has to crouch down to return.

“Is Mr. Washington watching us tonight?” Will demands, spinning around to Alex, a bundle of energy. “Can he? Please?”

Alex shakes his head and shoots George a quick smile. “Sorry, kiddo. I’m sure Mr. Washington wants to head home now.”

George goes to answer, but then Will is whirling back around to face him, pouting. “You don’t even want to stay for movie night?!”

Right. Monday movie night. A tradition Eliza coined - a well-intentioned effort to “start the week off on the right foot,” she’d said. A tradition Alex had promised the kids he’d bring back, though he’d entirely forgotten about it until, well, right now. Angie shifts uneasily at his side, her eyes falling down to stare at her shoes.

George notices. He looks from Angie to Alex, sucks in his bottom lip, and then shakes his head.

“I don’t want to intrude.”

Will frowns up at him, puzzled, and Alex sighs - doesn’t want to have to try and explain without upsetting his son, but then Angie clears her throat and looks back up with a bold smile. It’s not entirely insincere, though Alex senses she’s putting on a brave face.

“You should come to movie night,” she says cheerfully. 


	8. Chapter 8

Angie looks back at Alex, shrugging a shoulder. “What? It would be fun.”

Will gives George an expectant look. “We’re watching  _ The Princess Bride _ .”

“Still,” Alex says uncertainly. “I’ve kept Mr. Washington busy most of the day. I don’t know if he...” he trails off and glances back at George. “I mean, if you want to, you’re more than welcome.”

George puts a hand on Will’s shoulder, his eyes still on Alex’s. “I’d love to come to movie night.  I haven’t seen  _ The Princess Bride _ in years.”

They’re headed back in the direction of the house – it’s a bit of a walk, but the weather is still crisp and clean, just the slightest hint of winter sneaking into the air. Alex makes a mental note that it’s almost time to buy the kids new winter coats and boots. Will will have grown out of his by now; Angie will want whatever the latest style is – he’ll send her shopping with Angelica and Peggy, for that.

“Alex?” George says as they round the corner of his block, the kids several feet ahead, distracting themselves with stepping on whatever crunchy autumn leaves they can find on the sidewalk. George steps a little closer to him, lowering his voice. Their shoulders brush. “Angie didn’t seem entirely thrilled, about this.”

Alex sighs. “This used to be kind of a family thing, with my wife. Will doesn’t really get what that means, you know? I think she was just taken aback when he asked. But she invited you. It’s fine.”

George doesn’t seem entirely convinced but he nods, anyway. “I’m enjoying spending time with them. With you, too. I don’t want it to be…overwhelming.”

“It’s not,” Alex promises, pulling out his house keys. “This has – it’s all been really good for us, I think.”

Alex’s movie night turns out to be a little different from Eliza’s. Instead of fruit salad and pita and hummus, he orders two large pizzas and pops a couple bowls of buttery theater-style popcorn. He doesn’t miss the way George tries to discreetly blot the grease off his slice of cheese pizza with a napkin while they sit on the couch, Alex sinking further and further against his shoulder and nodding off toward the end of the movie. It’s only about 6 p.m. by the time the credits roll, but the day is just starting to catch up to him – and it seems to be about the same for the kids, too. Will is asleep on the floor, drooling on an accent pillow, and Angie is stretching lean arms above her head, yawning.

“Why don’t you get Will up to his room while I clean up?” Alex tells Angie, straightening up and off of George’s shoulder, hopping off the couch. Distantly, he knows he should be a little bashful for nearly falling asleep on him, but he’s pretty sure he felt George returning the pressure, leaning on him a little, too. So, he decides it’s fine. No need to fixate on it.

Angie wakes Will up and they disappear upstairs, leaving Alex to collect the pizza boxes and place them on top of the trash bin while George rinses butter out of the popcorn bowls.

“Eliza would flip, if she knew what I was feeding the kids,” Alex says after they’ve finished tidying up. He pulls two beers out of the fridge and holds one up. “You like IPAs?”

“Of course,” George says. Alex pries the cap off, sets it on the kitchen island, and George steps a little closer to grab it. “Was she a bit of a health nut?”

“To a fault,” Alex smiles. “Hot yoga twice a week, bringing home food with names I could barely pronounce. I used to have to take Philip and Angie out a lot, just so they could experience normal food like hamburgers and potato chips, because that was the kind of shit she didn’t like in the house – mostly because I think she knew she’d be tempted herself, you know? She could make her own vegan banana ice cream. She was actually, uh, getting ready for the Frozen Penguin Half Marathon when she passed. Putting her training schedule in our Google calendar just a few hours before it – before it happened.”

George looks at him steadily, and Alex realizes he feels safe with him – OK with sharing this part of his life, even though he’s not sure if he should, yet. It’s a lot for most people to process. He knows this. That, from the outside looking in, he looks broken and irreparable.

But George makes him feel he can rise above this shitty, shitty hand he’s been dealt.

He looks down at his feet and swallows. “They were on the southbound 1 train – Eliza and Philip. He was a first-year at Columbia and she wrapped up her Social Welfare Policy class early so they could both come down to grab lunch with me. He didn’t usually do that – lunch during the week. But it was one of those rare moments where our schedules kind of lined up and we wanted to make it happen. I hadn’t really spent much time with Philip since he was home for Christmas – you know how it is. He just wanted to chase girls and hang out with his friends. The train was going through Columbus Circle. They were – they were in the ninth car and the last two cars just…they were dragged a couple hundred feet before their car split open. I think, very early, before all the details came out, everyone initially thought it was some sort of terrorist attack, because that’s where everyone’s mind goes. But no – it was just a busted part, something that got skipped during routine maintenance. Human error.”

George doesn’t say anything, just nods through it, fiddling with the label on his beer bottle. So Alex keeps going.

“When I got the call, I was numb for days. And then it got to the point where it felt like the only thing keeping me alive were Angie and Will. During the worst times, I thought maybe they’d just be better off with my sister-in-law. I’ve had a pretty fucked up life, George. I didn’t grow up like Eliza. I have thick skin. But when that happened? It was indescribable. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. And for the longest time all I could think about was Will –having to grow up with barely any memory of her, and what that might do to him.”

He realizes he’s crying now, feels a warm tear tickling down to his chin. He hastily wipes it away – he hasn’t cried in front of anyone in months. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine.”

Alex’s chest tightens when George’s hand moves to rest over his on the kitchen island. It’s not overtly flirtatious, doesn’t carry any suggestion. His hand is just there – darker and much larger than his own, a gentle pressure over his knuckles.

“When we found out Eliza was pregnant with Philip, I didn’t know what we were going to do,” he says. “We were only 22 – it wasn’t a shotgun wedding, just a mishap, probably during the honeymoon or something, and she was elated. I couldn’t, not for the life of me, figure out why she was ready to have a baby with someone who had no business being a father. But then he was born and everything changed the second he was put in my arms. And I knew that, if I had Eliza with me, things would be OK. And they were. And now…”

He feels George squeeze his hand, hard, and that’s when the tears start to flow in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly gasping for a breath of air, his vision blurring. “I just haven’t cried in a long, long time.”

George lets go of his hand to grab a box of tissues off of the wine cabinet, nudging them over to Alex across the island. Alex laughs and mutters a  _ thank you _ , plucking a tissue out of the box, turning away to wipe under his eyes.

“Crying isn’t a bad thing,” George says finally, his own voice a little hoarse. “We’re the only species that produces tears based on what we’re feeling.”

Alex blinks up at him and laughs again, then sniffs. “Is this more of your weird zoo knowledge?”

George rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Darwin’s whole theory about the elephants was never quite proven.”

Alex smiles slowly and finishes off his beer. George hesitates a moment, then says, “For the record, I think you’re doing a fine job with your kids.”

“You’ve haven’t even known me a full week.”

George shrugs. “I don’t have to know someone for very long to know their heart is in the right place. That being said, Alex – I know things have been difficult, with your job and your sister-in-law’s schedule. And, if it’s something you’re comfortable with – my schedule can be very flexible, especially the days I’m not in court. I can’t make any promises with my availability, but if you ever need someone to help with the kids – I want you to feel like you can call me.”

Alex has to laugh at that. “I called you the day after we met. I’m pretty sure I trust you.”

“I know. I don’t want to overstep.”

“You’re not,” Alex says. “And, yeah, I know both my schedule and Angelica’s is about to get insane, with the holidays right around the corner, so – yeah. I might take you up on that. Maybe we should sit down with our calendars soon.”

“OK,” George smiles. “Just text me.”

Alex smiles back.

“OK.”


	9. Chapter 9

_ Columbia University, 1995 _

They decide to meet at the Starbucks on the corner of 114th and Broadway. He buys a caffè Americano for himself, a caffè latte for John. Their usual order. And he waits.

He wonders if this is what an out of body experience feels like. He’s mulled these words over for the past three weeks or so, but finally hearing them out loud? He can scarcely believe they’re coming from his own lips. 

“Eliza and I really want you to be our best man.”

John stares for a beat, mid-sip. His hand tenses around his paper coffee cup, fingers digging into the sleeve.

“Is this a fucking  _ joke?” _

Alex anticipated this reaction — he  _ told _ Eliza it would happen like this. He feels a little pathetic even asking John. He has other options. Mulligan. Peggy’s boyfriend — they met at Christmas. Seemed nice. 

OK, so he has one other option. 

But that doesn’t take away from the simple fact John is the only one he wants standing at his side when he marries Eliza. 

“I’m not joking,” Alex says cautiously. “You’re my best friend. I know it’s kind of…weird. But, come on, you had to see this coming.”

“ _ Weird? _ ” John says, eyes widening. “‘Weird’ is a huge goddamn understatement. Let’s go through this whole fucked up timeline, Alex.” He starts counting on his fingers. “Uh, OK, you — dated me for a year and three months. Broke up with me because things were getting ‘too serious’ and you thought we were ‘better off as friends.’ Continued to fuck me, even after meeting your bride-to-be — who you proposed to within six months of meeting her. So, yeah, sorry I’m not exactly jumping for joy here.”

Alex shakes his head, feels his own blood start to boil. “It’s not like Eliza doesn’t know — it was before we decided to stop seeing other people. She doesn’t  _ care _ , John. She really likes you.”

John laughs brokenly. “Yeah, she really likes me because she barely considers me an ex, right? Because I’m a guy?”

“That’s not even remotely close to the truth and you know it. And that’s really fucking rich, coming from the guy who told me I was a ‘phase’ — a piece in some game to piss off her bougie parents. Or, the guy who inadvertently called me a gold digger — ”

“OK,” John cuts him off, even though Alex is more than ready to dig out more examples of the way John has belittled and undercut him over the course of the last six months. But Alex can see, in the way he slouches as the tension lifts from his shoulders, that he’s simmering down. “That’s fair. I’m sorry.”

Alex blinks, shocked. “You are?”

“Yeah,” John shrugs, absently picking at the corner of his coffee cup sleeve. “I’ve been really — I’ve been hard on you. But you get that it’s only because I care, right?”

“John—”

“What? It’s true. I was with you for over a year, and I’ve known you even longer. I’m just protective.”

“Yeah, well.” Alex finishes his last sip of coffee. “I can take care of myself.”

A silence grows between them — not as comfortable as it used to be. Alex has his political theory seminar at 11:30 a.m. They’ll need to wrap this up soon, though he doesn’t want to have to be the one to walk away. 

“I’m not going to have any family at my own wedding,” Alex says after a moment, barely above a whisper. “It’s going to look pathetic — what, with how big Eliza’s family is. It would mean a lot to me. If you were there.”

John breaks eye contact, swallows, and Alex already knows what’s coming. “I’m sorry, Alex. I love you, but I can’t do this. It’s just too much. You have to understand. But you should ask Hercules. You know he’d love it.”

He doesn’t wait for Alex to respond. Just gives him a quick nod and scoops his trash off the table, stepping out of the cafe and onto the sidewalk, rapidly filling up with students on their way to class. 

_ Albany, 1996 _

So Alex asks Mulligan. They’re standing in the groom’s suite, forty-five minutes before the ceremony. Alex is a bundle of nervous energy, even after polishing off the emergency flask of scotch Mulligan cleverly stashed in his pocket. He’s fixing Alex’s bowtie in the mirror, straightening out his tuxedo (jet black — classic) lapels, when he puts two broad hands on Alex’s shoulders and squeezes.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Alex meets his eyes in the mirror. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Well. I think you’ll like this one.” And he crosses over to the suite’s main door, pulling John in from the hallway.

He’s dressed in his own perfectly-fitted tux, curly hair pulled back neatly and looking nearly sick with worry. Alex feels everything all at once — confusion, panic, frustration — it all washes over him like a tidal wave until he doesn’t really feel anything anymore. He just deflates. 

“I brought him as my plus one,” Mulligan says, pulling John further into the room, keeping a grip on his forearm. “It didn’t screw up the guest list.”

“You can tell me to fuck off if you want,” John says quickly. “I know this is kind of nuts, bordering on rude, but I — I changed my mind. Sorry.”

“John, I’m getting married in, like, half an hour.” But even as he says it he’s charging forward and into John’s arms, holding him tight against his chest. John hooks his chin over his shoulder and buries his nose in his neck.

And then Mulligan is towering over them, wrapping long arms around both of their shoulders, pulling them in for a bear hug. 

“For the record, I’m OK with being demoted to the flower girl,” Mulligan says.

Alex laughs and drops his forehead against Mulligan’s chest. John grins at him.

“OK. Let’s make an honest man out of you.”

—

_ Present Day _

Alex feels the tension in the newsroom the moment he steps out of the elevator — it’s clear in the way most of the employees on the main floor are huddled around desks, speaking in hushed voices to one another. Alex is tempted to just turn right back around, take the train back to Brooklyn and climb under the sheets. He’s really not in the mood for the workplace drama that the  _ National Gazette _ seems to sustain itself on.

“This is it,” Angelica says, calm and definitive, once he’s in their shared office. Burr is standing by her desk. He shoots Alex a vaguely panicked look. “This is the day I turn in my resignation and live off my trust fund, because this is not a rewarding job. This is the worst job, and I’m done.”

Alex glances back longingly at the door, sighs, and decides he should stay, probably. “What the hell is going on?”

“One of the interns fabricated a story,” Burr says quietly. Alex blanches. “That feature about the student at NYU who channeled the pain of losing her father to thyroid cancer into her sculptures or whatever? She doesn’t actually exist. NYU saw the article and flipped.” 

Alex knows it’s wrong — knows it’s a serious fucking problem — but he can’t help but laugh, even as Burr and Angelica stare him down. “The one that ran on A5 last Thursday? OK — that’s really bad. But, consider this — we have a rogue intern who’s gonna get kicked out of her program and never work in this industry again which, great, she deserves it. But what about, I don’t know,  _ our entire team of professional fact-checkers _ who neglected to do their jobs?”

“Yeah that’s crossed my mind a couple of times,” Angelica says bitterly, hoisting herself out of her chair and slamming her MacBook shut. “Anyway, it’s a wonderful fucking day to be in charge of the internship program. I’m obviously not going to be around much today, and I’m going to miss dinner tonight. Paine and I are meeting after hours to figure out the best way to douse this fire.”

Alex frowns. “But George is coming over tonight. I really wanted you guys to meet.”

Burr’s eye twitches. He turns and heads back over to his desk without saying another word. Angelica doesn’t seem to notice — she’s already throwing her laptop into her tote bag and tugging the strap over her shoulder. 

“I know — sorry. I really want to meet him too and finally see what the fuss is all about,” she shoots him a smile and flicks a curl out of her eyes. “Will seems to be very impressed by him.”

Alex shrugs. “Yeah, well, Will is impressed by anyone over 5’10” so the bar’s not set very high. Literally.” 

He cracks a smile and Angelica shoots him a knowing look. In the two weeks since George offered a helping hand, he hasn’t had much time to thoroughly discuss it with Angelica. But if she feels threatened by someone else stepping into her role, she doesn’t show it. 

Alex can sense she has questions, though. Questions he’s not entirely sure he’s ready to answer just yet. 

He clears his throat, pushing past the moment. “But in all seriousness, yeah, he’s good with the kids. It’s been nice for them to socialize with someone outside of the family, you know? Someone kind of — removed from everything that’s happened.”

“It’s good for you, too,” Angelica says, already halfway out the door. “Have fun tonight.”

Burr is quiet on his end of the office, the tension thick in the air with Angelica gone. Alex realizes with resigned dismay that they’re going to have to talk. That, as borderline amusing as it is, it’s not fair to leave him anxious and wondering what Alex knows. Alex says a quick prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in and steps around to Burr’s desk.

“So you and George Washington,” Burr says, not looking up from his laptop. “Are, what? Friends?”

Alex bulldozes right past that conversation. “He told me.” And then, when Burr looks up at him with building horror, “Look, you don’t have to worry about it, OK? He said it was like 15 years ago, right? Your first career crashed and burned, big deal. I’m assuming I’m the one you didn’t want knowing, but I do now. Sorry. But it literally hasn’t changed my opinion of you. I still think you’re a pain in the ass. But a very talented one.”

Burr still looks startled, unconvinced. “Why did he tell you?”

“After he stopped by the office a few weeks ago, I asked why you were acting so fucking awkward,” Alex says, shrugging. “So he had to tell me the truth, or else I was just going to keep thinking you guys were having a horribly unethical affair.”

Burr drops his head in his hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“So now that that’s out in the open — are we good?”

Burr hesitates, then nods. “Can you just…not tell anyone else? Even Angelica?”

“As long as you didn’t fabricate your J-School records or something, I don’t see why I’d need to bring it up to anyone else.”

Burr huffs out a sigh of relief and smiles up at him, just slightly. “OK, then. We’re good. Thank you, Alexander.”

Alex goes back to his desk, mentally preparing himself for another monotonous day of editing copy and Jefferson’s never-ending scheduling conflicts. A few minutes later, he hears Burr chuckling to himself. 

“What?”

“An affair with George Washington,” Burr repeats, laughing harder. Alex can’t help but join in.

—

George arrives right at 6 p.m., dressed down in a pair of maroon slacks and a sweater. Alex greets him in the kitchen with a wide grin and two chilled bottles of Stag.

“I never make pepperpot stew without drinking this,” Alex says, pouring both bottles into glasses and passing one to George. He takes a sip and nods his approval. 

“It’s good.”

“Great — so, I’ve already done most of the work here,” he says, waving a hand around the kitchen. “The rice is in the cooker and I’ve got the beef, onions and the other shit boiling. In, like, ten minutes we’ll bring it down to a simmer and throw in the potatoes and coconut milk. I’ve got the kids finishing their homework upstairs but they’ll be down in a few minutes. Sound good?”

George nods, glancing over at the covered pot crackling on the stove. “Where’d you learn how to make this?”

Alex shrugs and grabs his glass of water off the countertop, setting his laptop down on the kitchen island and pulling up Apple Music. He doesn’t really care to get into much about his childhood today, wants to give George a little more time to process the other shit he’s thrown at him before diving into yet another traumatizing story. “Just something my mom would make while I was growing up. Hey — any music requests while we wait?”

“Whatever you want.” 

“I can just stream something from my laptop,” Alex says, taking a wild guess and tapping a cheesy pre-made playlist titled “ _ Sweet and Stylish Dinner Music: Soak up some sophisticated tunes to make your suppertime sing. _ ” Seems fitting enough.

He switches over to his email window to see if Jefferson’s assistant has granted him a response — gets his hopes up when he sees an unread message at the top of his inbox. Doesn’t even look twice at the email address until the message is pulled up in front of him.

His glass slips from his hand and shatters on the kitchen tiles. 

George turns back around, startled, his eyes darting to the floor.

“Alex!” he says, grabbing his arm to keep him still. “Jesus, watch your feet.”

“Sorry,” Alex says distantly, reading and rereading the email as George makes a beeline for the hall closet, grabbing a broom. 

**_From: jlaurens76@gmail.com_ **

**_To: a.hamilton@nationalgazette.com_ **

**_Subject: Meeting up?_ **

_ Hey man, it’s been a while.  _

_ I’m going to be visiting some friends in the city before I head down to Charleston for the holidays. My hotel’s over in Koreatown if you want to get dinner and a drink or something? _

_ I’d really love to catch up if you’re down with it. MSF is sending me back to Burkina Faso in January.  _

_ Yours, _

_ John _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Alex changes three times before he decides on a basic white tee, a gray cashmere cardigan and a pair of dark jeans — it’s neat and classic, not trying too hard. He wears his hair down, the same way he’s been wearing it for a few weeks now. Combed back, just brushing his shoulders. He even got it trimmed, finally, with this new look in mind.

“Does he know…?” George asks while they wait for John to arrive. George is seated on the sectional, Alex is pacing the floor in front of him. Angie and Will, luckily, are distracted in the dining room, eating leftover chicken parmigiana.

“He sent me a sympathy card a month after it happened,” Alex explains bitterly, wringing his hands. His eyes dart to George’s and he stops for a moment. “I mean, he’s been overseas with Doctors Without Borders for a couple years now. We fell out of touch long before then. Still — don’t you think he would’ve at least called by now?”

George shrugs and Alex squeezes his eyes shut, sighs. It’s not fair to dump all of this on him, he knows that. George doesn’t know John, and Alex can already tell he’s growing weary of the overanalyzing and fretting. George touches the couch cushion next to him.

“Sit down, please. Stop pacing.”

Alex joins him on the couch and George lays a comforting hand on his knee as he sits, just briefly, before pulling back and resting his hand on his own leg. It sends an unexpected jolt of electricity through Alex’s body.

“You wouldn’t have agreed to see him tonight if you didn’t want to hear what he has to say, right?” George says gently. “It’s only dinner. And if you were as close as you say you were, he’s here with good intentions.”

Alex swallows thickly with the realization it’s time to come clean — he doesn’t even know why he’s withheld it at all. It’s not a part of him he’s ever tried to hide from anyone. Telling George, though, carries a sort of weight — a significance he can’t quite put his finger on. And, for years now, it’s never been something he’s needed to tell anyone.

“We were very close,” he says, watching George’s face carefully. “We actually — we dated for a little over a year before I got with Eliza.”

George’s eyes widen, barely, and Alex nervously shifts his weight on the couch. He remembers what George said about Burr — _“Isn’t he married? To a woman?”_ — and starts to feel a bit nauseous, sick to his stomach.

“You dated?” George repeats. Alex nods. He can’t get a read on his tone, but it strikes him as impassive. He doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Yeah. I mean, I’d been with other guys — and girls — before but he was my first, what I would consider a serious, relationship.” And then, because he can’t help but say it, just to clear the air, “Please tell me you’re not one of those ‘pick one’ guys.”

George frowns deeply, clearly thrown off guard. “No, not at all, I — It’s just that you apologized for making an assumption about me, and now I guess I need to do the same. Sorry.”

“To be fair, it’s an easy assumption to make,” Alex admits with a shrug. “I mean, it’s been over two decades — I don’t feel that way about him anymore. I mean, shit, I’ve gone months without even _thinking_ about him. But you get why that makes things a little weird, right?”

Right on cue, there’s a light rap on his front door — five quick, succinct knocks. He feels George’s eyes follow him as he makes his way across the room. Each step feels heavy, like he’s underwater.

They haven’t seen each other in thirteen years — not since he took that job in Guerrero. Yet, when he opens up the front door, it’s a little like traveling back in time. John doesn’t look much different, always had a sort of youthfulness about him. His figure is still compact and athletic, but his eyes are tired, and there’s just a hint of smile lines at the corners of his mouth. His hair — that’s still dark, no hint of gray. Not like Alex’s own.

A hug, in this moment, doesn’t feel appropriate. So Alex just opens the door wide and steps aside, welcoming him into the living room. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees George rise from the couch.

“Alex,” John says, finally, running his palms down the front of his pants. “It’s — it’s really good to see you again. Your house — it’s amazing.”

Alex nods, searching for his own words, when George appears at his side, smiling almost serenely. It helps ease the tension, now thick in the air.

“John, this is my friend, George Washington,” he says, grabbing George’s arm and nudging him forward. They shake hands and John’s eyes flicker to his, questioning. But Alex ignores him, instead calling Angie and Will out to the living room.

The whole affair turns out to be painfully awkward. John remembers meeting Angie as a two-year-old and tells her as much while Will shyly stands behind George’s leg. After a few minutes, Alex finally ushers him out the front door and down the porch steps. The fresh air helps, makes his brain feel a little less muddy.

* * *

They decide not to go into the city and instead take an Uber to Williamsburg. If Alex ends up wanting to leave, he doesn’t want to be too far from home. He lets John pick a Cuban restaurant — all fake, rubber palm trees and burgundy walls, a live band holed away in the corner. They order, sit in silence for a moment, and then John looks up from the beer menu.

“She looks exactly like her, you know,” he says quietly. “Angie, I mean.”

Alex sees red. “So you’re just going to go right into it like that — ”

“Alex, I’m sorry,” John says, firm. “I know I fucked up. That’s why I’m here now.”

“You were my best friend, my best man, and you sent me a _card_.”

John tears his eyes away and stares at the band instead. “I didn’t even hear about the accident until a week or two after it happened. I mean, I was in fucking West Africa. By the time I even had a chance to call it didn’t — it didn’t feel right. What was I supposed to say to you? I mean, we exchanged Christmas cards and an email every now and then. It’s not exactly the way it used to be, Alex. And isn’t this better? In person?”

“Almost ten months later?”

“Alex,” John says carefully, looking at him now. “I know you’re angry. But I’m here now. The whole ‘visiting friends before going to Charleston’ thing I wrote in the email? Not true. I came here for you, I just didn’t want to say so ‘cause it’d be embarrassing if you shot me down. So can you please at least consider letting me off the hook? I got here as soon as I could.”

Alex runs both hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. He doesn’t think he’s quite ready to forgive, though he knows John has a point — knows Burkina Faso isn’t exactly the next state over. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he also knows it took a lot of guts on John’s part to even follow through with meeting up. So he meets John’s eyes and gives him a tight nod.

“Yeah,” he says. “OK.”

John relaxes a little. “I can’t even begin to understand what this has been like for you and your kids,” he says. “And Angelica and Peg?”

He gives John the standard response. He’s said it a hundred times by now. “Some days are better than others. Angelica’s been there for us since day one, and Peggy’s really leaned on her, too. She’s kind of the thing that’s been keeping us all on our feet, in a way.”

“Sounds like her,” John says. They talk a while longer — about the funeral, the lawsuit against the MTA that seems to be fizzling out, the scholarship Columbia’s organizing in Eliza and Philip’s memory. Eventually, Alex loses steam and grows silent. John’s face twists into a grimace.

“Hey, is this even something you want to talk about?” he asks. “I mean, we can, but you’ve probably hashed this out with like a million different people… ”

Alex shrugs. “I kind of have, yeah. I mean, we’re all just trying to carry on and do our best right now. The holidays are going to be…they’re going to be pretty rough. But, honestly? I’d rather hear more about what you’re up to.”

They order a couple pitchers of beer and John dives right into his work in Burkina Faso (“They keep stationing me there because of the whole French fluency thing,” he says. “But it’s also really rewarding work. That helps.”) There’s the new nutrition plans he’s developing for refugees, the food security initiatives he’s dabbling in. It’s all very impressive — makes Alex feel a little self-conscious when he brings up his own work.

“You’ve really outgrown that place,” John says, sipping his beer. “You’re so talented, Alex. You could do better.”

“Well, right now I’m just trying to keep things stable for the kids.”

John orders two mojitos before Alex can refuse. He sips his slowly, but on top of the beer, the restaurant is already starting to look a little distorted. He doesn’t really drink much anymore, aside from the IPAs he keeps in his fridge, and he knows his tolerance isn’t what it used to be. John, though, seems to be fine, if not getting increasingly chattier.

“So, your babysitter,” John says, wiggling an eyebrow. “Where’d you find him?”

“In Central Park,” Alex answers slowly “Why?”

John shrugs and stirs his drink with his straw. “Single?”

“John.”

“What?” John laughs. “I’m asking for _me._ Still have a couple nights before I fly out, you know. I haven’t gotten laid in — I don’t even know how long. And he looks like he could really-”

“Hey,” Alex snaps. And it works — John’s mouth clamps shut in surprise. He figures it must be the mojito — doesn’t know why else he’s feeling this sudden rush of jealousy, possessiveness. “Cut it _out._ ”

“Sorry,” John laughs again, a little startled. “I’m just joking around.”

John goes to say something more, but seems to think better of it. Instead, he picks the mint out of his drink and sips up the last of it, the ice rattling in the bottom of the cup.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” Alex decides suddenly, and he must stand up too fast — though it feels rather slow — because he knocks his hip into the table, hard, rattling their plates and silverware. He puts one palm flat against the tabletop, steadying himself.

“Whoa,” John says, rising from the table and grabbing his arm. “Hey, are you drunk?”

Alex shakes his head. The room spins, tilts on its side a little. He closes his eyes. “I don’t — maybe a little.”

John lays down a few $20 bills on the table and wraps his arm snug around Alex’s waist, leading him out the door. Alex can’t really tell, given his own state, but it feels like John is a little unsteady on his feet, too. He pulls away as soon as they’re out on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall and waving away cigarette smoke from a passerby. John pulls out his phone and orders an Uber, then joins him.

“Hey,” he says, playfully elbowing Alex’s ribs and grinning. “Remember when Hercules tried to do 21 tequila shots for his birthday?”

Alex groans at the memory. “He threw up all over that poor girl he was trying to bring home.”

The back of John’s head falls against the wall as he laughs, the crows feet webbing his eyes a little more pronounced. Alex can’t help but smile, watching him, even when John looks back over and closes the distance between them.

Before their lips even meet, it feels all wrong. The taste of lime juice on John’s tongue brings back memories of weekend nights spent bar hopping before falling into bed together, always too drunk to fool around, waking up tangled in cheap sheets with pounding headaches. It’s not who he is anymore — not even who John is anymore. Too much time has passed, too much has happened, to both of them, to make this feel anything but hollow. Empty.

John must feel it, too. He pulls away first.

“That wasn’t…” John trails off, stumbling backwards.

Alex shakes his head. It’s a relief, in a way. Because, even with twenty years of a near-perfect marriage, he’d be lying to himself if he hadn’t considered what life would be like, if he’d gone down a different road. It’s not just the kiss — it’s the way the entire goddamn night has turned out. This? The two of them? They were never meant to make it work.

The Uber driver pulls up to the curb and Alex pushes himself off the wall.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Alex says, and he means it. “But this – it ran its course. A long time ago.”

John doesn’t fight him on it, only nods and stands up a little straighter. “I shouldn’t have done that – ”

“Enjoy the rest of your time in New York, OK?” he interrupts, hand groping for the passenger side door, missing it a couple times. “Tell your dad and mom I say ‘hi’ when you get to Charleston.”

John helps him with the door, carefully guides him into the passenger seat. “Can we – can we keep in touch?”

Alex thinks it over for a second, nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Hey, are you ready?” the driver – an overweight middle-aged man in a stained shirt, thick accent Alex can’t quite place – barks. “I don’t have all night.”

“Get back to your hotel safe,” Alex says. He closes the door and waves at John through the window. The car speeds off. He shuts his eyes against the passing streetlights.

* * *

The drive back to Park Slope gives him time to sober up and check his phone. Three texts and a missed call from George. His mind wanders in a thousand different directions before he notices the time – 12:43 a.m.

“Shit,” he whispers, opening up his texts. He’d wanted to be home before 11 p.m., had no idea he’d lost so much time. _On my way back now,_ he types out, reading the message over a couple times before hitting the send button.

He feels a headache coming on by the time he swings open the front door. The living room lamp is still on, but all the other lights have been turned off. He sways in the entryway, trying to get his muddled thoughts together, when George steps out of the kitchen.

“Alex,” George sighs, sounding somewhere between exhausted and irritated. That sobers Alex up even more. “It’s almost one in the morning.”

“Sorry,” Alex winces, stripping off his cardigan and tossing it over a chair. He peels off his shoes, too, nearly toppling over when he bends down.

George steps closer to catch him, pulling him back up to his feet. He sniffs the air and makes a face. “Are you drunk?”

Alex flushes, thankful there’s a distinct possibility he’s already tomato-red. “Sort of coming down from that – that state … I need to lie down.”

He pushes away from George and walks into his bedroom, taking care with each step he takes and throwing himself face-first into his duvet. He groans into his pillow, tries to fight off a sudden rush of nausea.

“You’re not going to throw up, are you?” George asks from the doorway. Alex snickers and shakes his head.

“I don’t think so. And, hey – sorry for keeping you here so late.” He cringes. “On a work night.”

George waves a dismissive hand and steps into the room. “It’s fine. I was just a little worried. Are things OK?”

Alex rolls onto his side and looks up at him. He is, Alex thinks – objectively – very handsome. Not in an intimidating way, either. It’s not like he’s never noticed before – the strong jaw, warm eyes. And his body – that’s a whole other thing, and really, why hasn’t he taken the time to appreciate what’s been right in front of him? Alex has never liked a lot of muscle, but George seems to have just the right amount – gently toned in all the right places (thighs, arms, probably his chest, too). And his height – he’s taller than anyone Alex has ever been with. But he could probably get into that. Absolutely. If he were interested.

He understands what John meant, now. Objectively, of course.

“It was kind of a mess,” Alex says, shrugging the shoulder not pressed into the mattress. He pats the edge of the bed and George hesitates for a moment, then sits. “I mean, he had a good enough reason for not contacting me, I guess. But then he started ordering drinks, he kissed me – it was like we were completely regressing. I’ve changed so much since we were college kids.”

“Wait – he _kissed_ you?”

“Yeah,” Alex barks out a laugh and shifts so he’s on his back instead. “That was the real kicker. How fucking clueless can you be? I mean – I’m not…I don’t think I can ever date again, but if I did, I’d need someone who’s more in tune with where I am in my life right now and just gets it. I love John, but it’s different now. I can’t backtrack.”

George is quiet for a moment, and Alex realizes the implication behind what he’s just said. Maybe it’s the fading liquid courage, but he doesn’t feel the immediate need to clarify or retract. He lets it rest in the air between them for a moment as he stares up at the uneven paint on his bedroom ceiling. He smiles. Eliza had always complained; he’d always promised to get it fixed.

“I should go home,” George says, standing upright. But Alex swats his arm.

“It’s too late. Take the sofa bed in the living room.”

“You sure?”

“Of course,” Alex says, gazing up at him. “I don’t have anything that would fit you – ”

George snorts. “It’s fine, it’s not like I’ll be sleeping for long anyway. I’ll just run home and change before work.”

Alex nods and grabs his phone off the nightstand, sets his alarm. “Clean blankets and pillows are in the hall closet. Let me know if you need anything.”

* * *

He wakes up the next morning disoriented, his alarm blaring next to his ear, on the pillow. It takes everything in him not to hurl it into the wall – his headache has only worsened overnight.

Alex clumsily hits a few buttons on his phone and cocoons himself in his sheets, replaying last night in his head – it feels far away, almost like it happened in a dream. He’s tempted to call in sick – doesn’t think he’ll get much done today, anyway – but then he sees the glass of ice water and two Ibuprofen on his nightstand. He’s walking on thin ice as it is. He can’t skip work today.

He downs the pills and throws on fresh clothes, thankful to see George is already awake, two mugs of coffee waiting on the kitchen counter. The kids are at the table, munching on cereal. Angie shoots him an amused look.

“Wild night, dad?”

Alex groans and joins George at the counter, grabbing his mug.

“What did you tell them?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

“Well, Angie came downstairs while I was still on the sofa,” George shrugs. “I told her you came home a bit later than expected, so I crashed here. Is that OK? I didn’t know what else…”

Alex shakes his head. “It’s fine. It’s my fault, anyway.”

They still make it out the door on time, George opting to walk with Alex to the kids’ schools instead of going directly to the train. In any other circumstance, Alex might find it frustrating, bordering on clingy. But George has a way of making him feel at ease. His presence is calming. Therapeutic, in a way. Alex has been turning last night’s words over and over in his mind all morning. He really, truly, doesn’t think he’ll date again. Doesn’t think he has it in him. But he can’t move past the fact he more or less described George – _someone who’s more in tune with where I am in my life right now._ He knows it must be on George’s mind, too.

The F train is stuffed with morning commuters when they finally board, and Alex has two options. He could step closer to the woman on his right, who’s flaking the dry skin off her forearms, or he could step closer to George, who smells like his morning coffee and tasteful, day-old cologne. He takes his chances with George and tucks himself against his side, muttering an apology.

George shifts to accommodate him, lifting his arm and bracing it against the wall of the carriage. Another man squeezes into the crowd just before the doors shut, forcefully pushing his back against Alex’s to make more room for himself.

Alex twists uncomfortably against George, noting the sharp intake of breath, just above his ear. He files that away for later, craning his neck around to get a good look at the man behind him.

“What, you couldn’t wait for the next train?”

He turns back around and rolls his eyes at George, who’s looking down at him with a mix of horror and amusement, when the man retaliates with a sharp elbow that forces Alex closer to George and he feels, pressed right above his hipbone, what he’s certain is an erection.

Alex freezes, his pulse rattling in his throat. He doesn’t move. He can feel the heavy rise and fall of George’s chest against his own. He’s afraid to look up at him – isn’t sure what kind of expression he’s wearing on his own face, and he doesn’t want to make him feel like some sort of creep (it’s completely natural, he thinks, being this close to, well, anyone). His own brain starts to turn to mush and suddenly, what was uncomfortable and inconvenient before, is now stirring up a forgotten heat low in his belly.

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because the train accelerates with a sharp jolt that shifts everyone a few inches forward – and Alex’s forehead straight into George’s chin.

“Ow, fuck – ” Alex hisses as he’s knocked sideways, grabbing hold of both of George’s shoulders to steady himself, even as George catches him around the waist to stop him from barreling into the other passengers.

The ride smoothes out. George quickly lets him go and Alex drops his hands, thinks the moment is gone until he looks up to see George tonguing the inside of his bottom lip, searching for blood.

“Sorry,” Alex says sheepishly, watching his mouth. And there’s the mushy brain again. “I, uh - I don’t think you’re bleeding.”

George looks down at him, wary, and Alex steadily holds his gaze. Doesn’t want him to feel embarrassed for whatever the fuck just happened. Because Alex sure as hell isn’t.

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

It’s George’s eyes, he decides. 

Alex loves George’s eyes.

The thing is, it’s been a long time since anyone’s looked at him the way George did on the F train. There’s a small part of him that thinks he should feel scandalized by it — because George has been such a good friend to him, and now what? 

Where do they go from here?

George, ever the gentleman, doesn’t bring it up next time he comes to visit. So Alex doesn’t, either. Still, it’s on his mind almost constantly. The way George’s chest, sturdy and broad, had felt against his own. The way he’d grabbed him when the train lurched, thick fingers digging into his waist. How hard and  _ thick _ he’d felt against his hip. How it made Alex’s own body feel alive again.

It’s not like he doesn’t get off anymore. It’s just that it feels more like a chore than anything else. Thinking of Eliza’s soft skin and pretty moans, the faded stretch marks on her belly she wore with pride — that offers nothing but a few minutes of bliss followed by emptiness. Thinking of nothing rarely works and only leaves him frustrated. 

He starts to imagine George. 

It doesn’t start off as George, though. Just a faceless figure with his hands and his scent. But the more the figure takes shape in his mind, the more it resembles him. He wonders what it might be like to have all that weight, pushing him into the mattress, or how it might feel to run his own hands over his chest or down the backs of his thighs. There’s so much about George’s touch he doesn’t know — he doesn’t have an entire fantasy pieced together. But the one that keeps playing over and over in his mind? He’s face down, hugging a pillow to his chest while George works over his body with his hands and mouth. Massaging his shoulders, nuzzling the back of his neck, pressing kisses to the base of his tailbone before moving lower, sloppy and wet. It’s enough to make Alex feel almost disgusted with himself, the guilt is still there — always in the back of his mind. But with George’s eyes, warm and grounding, always taking center stage on these nights, he can’t help but succumb to him. Or, at least, this made-up, fantasy version of him.

So, his libido is creeping back. That’s new. And entirely inconvenient.

Alex doesn’t expect to be able to look him in the eye when they meet up over their lunch break, not the morning after he finally allowed himself to pant George’s name into his pillow, two fingers buried up to the knuckle. He finds he has the opposite problem — he can’t keep his eyes off him.

“You wouldn’t believe the mess I had to clean up today,” George says between spoonfuls of soup. Alex notices, with vague amusement, he ordered it with a bread bowl. Can’t help but wonder if his own eating habits are starting to rub off on him. Alex half-listens to a long-winded story about a clerk accidentally leaving a sealed deposition transcript in a public case file, nodding when appropriate, but otherwise transfixed by the way George’s lips curl when he gets frustrated. 

“So that’s grounds for firing, right?” Alex asks, watching George tear off a piece of bread and dip it into his soup. 

“Not really,” George shrugs. “She’s been with us two years and has never slipped up. Seems like it was an honest mistake. Regardless, there was sensitive information in there. I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like had a reporter requested that file and stumbled upon it — no offense.”

Alex snorts. “None taken.”

He watches George rip off another piece of his bread bowl, hating himself a little for being this mesmerized by watching him eat a fucking bowl of soup. George must notice — he looks at Alex and nods down at his plate.

“Did you want to try it? Garden vegetable. Nothing exciting.”

Alex glances up, not sure if it’s a sincere gesture or if George can see right through him and has decided to toy with him. George just smiles and nudges the plate a little closer. Alex clears his throat and shakes his head. 

“No, sorry — that wasn’t what I — my sandwich was pretty filling. Thanks, though.”

They leave the cafe together, George leading the way and opening the door for him. They’re just a little over two weeks into November now, the air growing drier and chillier by the day. Alex can already tell they’re in for another long, cold winter. 

“Do you go back to Virginia for the holidays?” Alex asks, glancing up at him while they wait at a crosswalk. 

George shakes his head. “No, I stay in the city. No real family to spend them with, unless you count some aunts and uncles and a couple cousins who don’t care much for me.”

Alex falls silent for a moment, files that away for later. He’s curious, but he’s not about to grill George with only fifteen minutes left of their lunch break. He realizes, now, he’s probably taken a few things for granted — he’s never had to spend the holidays alone since coming to the States. He’d either be in Charleston with John’s family or in Albany with Eliza’s. This year will present some new challenges, but at least he has his kids.

“We haven’t even figured out Thanksgiving,” Alex sighs, following George across the street. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll watch the parade broadcast and the National Dog Show. That usually ends with the kids begging for a corgi, though.”

They reach the front entrance of Alex’s building and step aside, against the wall and away from the foot traffic. Alex is half-tempted to go in for a hug, however out of place it may seem, if only so he can commit the way George’s body feels against his to memory. But then George tilts his head to one side and smiles at him, almost hopefully. 

“I have Thanksgiving at my place every year,” George says. “It’s just with a couple people from my office who don’t really have anywhere else to go. I know you’ll end up with your own plans, but you and the kids — Angelica, too — are more than welcome.”

“Co-workers?” Alex says, remembering what Burr said about them.  _ His staff really seems to love him. _ “So you have, like, one of those Friendsgivings?”

“My assistant and his wife don’t have family in the States — technically they don't even celebrate Thanksgiving — but they’ve been coming for years, now. One of the EADAs lost her husband a few years ago, so she joins us, as well.”

Alex is intrigued — he wants to welcome any opportunity offered to get to know George better, meet his friends, step into his space a little. He doesn’t know where any of this is headed, or what results he’s searching for. But he does know that his heart and mind aren’t in the right place, nowhere near capable enough to accept and process what he  _ wants.  _ Yet, he’s finding it difficult to step down.

“We’ll be there.”

George blinks in clear surprise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah — text me your address. Let me know what I should bring. I’ll cook. It’ll be fun.”

George huffs out a relieved laugh and nods. “OK.”

Alex resists the nagging urge to step in for a hug and instead shoots him a quick smile, one hand lingering on the door handle. “I’ll see you tonight? For dinner?”

“See you then.”

Alex feels almost childishly giddy as he makes his way back to his office, choosing the stairs rather than the elevator in an unsuccessful attempt at working off his nervous energy. He’s already planning his dish in his mind — he’s certain he still has Catherine Schuyler’s sweet potato casserole recipe somewhere in his desk at home. 

He steps into the kitchenette and finds Angelica’s there, dressed in a conservative black and white collared dress, pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee. 

“You read my mind,” he says, stepping up next to her and cheerfully grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “I need a post-lunch pick-me-up.”

Angelica leans against the counter, watching him. “Are you and George dating?”

Alex nearly drops his mug, the wind knocked straight out of his sails. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s who you had lunch with, right?” Angelica shrugs, her expression stoic. Unreadable. “Which is just — I don’t know, a little excessive considering he’s coming over tonight. In my experience, when you’re seeing someone multiple times a day, several times in one week, you’re either dating them, screwing them, or trying to screw them.”

Alex calmly clicks the coffee pot back into place, avoiding eye contact. “We’re not dating — or fucking, for that matter. He’s my friend. He’s helping me with the kids — sorry, where is this all coming from?”

“Alex,” Angelica says, gentler than before. She ignores his last question. “It’s gone beyond the kids. He works in Lower Manhattan and comes up to Bryant Park, just to see you over lunch? Come on — I know you’re smarter than this.”

“If you’re suggesting he has ulterior motives in mind, that’s not it,” Alex says stubbornly, though he can’t be sure. “I may have been married for half my life, but I’ve been around the block a couple times — And, hey, I thought you said hanging out with him was good for me?”

Angelica shrugs. “It is. But — I don’t know, Alex. It hasn’t even been a year. And you know I say this from a place of love, right? I’m not going to go into some spiel about how soon is too soon, or whatever. But I just want you to be careful with yourself.”

_ I could say the same thing to you,  _ he thinks bitterly, his mind flashing to Jefferson, though he doesn’t dare say it out loud. 

“I am being careful, considering there’s  _ nothing going on _ ,” Alex says through gritted teeth, growing increasingly frustrated. He doesn’t want to raise his voice at work, doesn’t want to draw any more attention to himself. He feels a distinct pang of shame, hates that Angelica’s words of warning are coming at such an inopportune time. But he’s been telling himself fantasies are fantasies for a reason. Doesn’t mean he’s going to act on them — doesn’t mean he even  _ wants _ to act on them.

At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself.

“Alex, I believe you,” Angelica says, smiling a little too wide. “Just something to keep in mind, OK?”

“Sure.”

“Can I say something else that you might not like?”

Alex almost groans, but controls himself. “Do I really have another option?”

Angelica smiles a little at that. “Listen — we haven’t hung out in a while. I was really hoping it’d just be me, you and the kids at dinner tonight.”

Alex frowns. “You’re asking me to cancel on George? You still need to meet him.”

“Is that OK? Do you mind?” Angelica asks. And then, looking down, tilting her foot and distractedly examining the heel of her black Lanvin pump. “I’ve kind of had a rough couple weeks. It’d be good to just have some family time. Remember why I’m here.”

That strikes Alex as odd, but he shrugs it off quickly. He figures it’s the least he can do to keep her off his back, maybe put a little bit of distance between himself and George. Take a little time to cool off. And, she’s right — it has been a while since they all came together as a family. 

“OK,” Alex agrees. “That’s fine. I’ll tell him.”

He sets down his coffee mug and fishes his phone out of his pocket, clicking on his messages. He knows it’s the right thing to do, though he can’t help but be a bit disappointed. He’d hoped seeing George tonight would be somewhat of a reward for yet another insufferable day at the  _ Gazette. _

_ Change of plans tonight, sorry. Need to be with family. _

Alex bites down on his lower lip as he presses ‘send.’ It’s fine — they’re both adults. 

“I’ll bring my asparagus stir-fry over tonight,” Angelica says, mostly to herself, while Alex waits impatiently for George to reply. His breath catches in his throat as soon as his phone vibrates in his hand. 

_ Sorry to hear it, but no worries. Everything okay? _

Alex texts back a quick response and looks up at Angelica. Figures now’s as good a time as any to tell her.

“Dinner is officially just the four of us,” he says, returning Angelica’s smile. “It’s actually going to work out really well — you can just meet George when we go to his place for Thanksgiving.”

Angelica’s smile drops. “Pardon?”

“He invited all of us over to his place for Thanksgiving. We didn’t have any solid plans, so, I said we’d come,” Alex says. “And that’s kind of — that’s non-negotiable.”

Angelica’s smile slowly returns to her face. Tighter, this time. “Of course. It’d be rude to switch plans around a second time.”

Alex lets out a sigh he didn’t realize he was holding as soon as she exits the room. He’s going to meet George’s co-workers. George is going to meet his sister-in-law. On Thanksgiving day. 

He might need a drink or two beforehand. 


End file.
